White Thunder

by Thurlo, Aimée

  “At least she’ll have her day in court. I’ll farm that one out to one of the officers at Window Rock.” Big Ed shook his head slowly. “And the rest I’ll hand out to our patrol officers—for the time being. Just put the folders on the duty officer’s desk. Until Thomas is located, the FBI case comes first. Make it a top priority for your Special Investigations team.”

  Ella had just stepped out of Big Ed’s office when she saw Justine down the hall by the candy machine. She’d never quite figured out how Justine managed to stay so thin. Her cuz was practically addicted to peanut butter and chocolate. Ella joined Justine and quickly brought her up to speed while she retrieved the active files from her office and turned them over to the duty officer.

  Three minutes later they were at the main entrance to the station. “Do you want me to go with you to meet Simmons?” Justine asked at the door.

  “No. I’d rather you drive to Thomas’s apartment and check it out. The address is in a computer file Blalock mails to me periodically to keep me updated. It’s got his and Thomas’s addresses and phone numbers, blood types, next of kin, and so on,” Ella said. “When you get to Thomas’s place, try to get around not having a court order by persuading the landlord to let you in. If that doesn’t work, I’ll see if Simmons can cut corners and get a warrant for us quickly,” Ella said as they walked out to the parking lot.

  “Why search his apartment?” Justine said, almost as if she’d read Ella’s mind. “Are you thinking that Thomas’s disappearance might be personal and that it has nothing to do with the Sing? But if that’s the case, why did he call Dispatch in the first place?”

  “I admit it’s not likely, but we’ve got to check out all the possibilities. I also want to know everything about Agent Thomas—his routines, who his friends are, what he does when he’s not working, also if he’s put away any local bad boys recently that might have sent someone to even the score.”

  “Got it. I’ll get on it right now.” Justine waved and turned, jogging toward her own unit, parked across the lot.

  Ella drove north onto the mesa where the FBI’s bland, brown brick-and-glass office was located among several tribal agency buildings. Although it was turning out to be the worst possible time for the senior local agent to have gone on vacation, she understood why it had been important for him to get away, turn off his cell phone, and find a quiet place to clear his head.

  Agent Blalock—FB-Eyes as he was known locally because he had one brown eye and one blue—had been working long hours with Thomas. After a disagreement with Simmons over some of Agent Thomas’s reports, Simmons had come down hard on Blalock. Angry and frustrated with bureaucratic protocols, Blalock had announced that he was taking time off. Simmons had actually encouraged him by urging the workaholic Blalock to use his leave before he lost it.

  On the face of it, she sure wished things had gone down differently. It would have been an advantage to have an agent like Blalock, who was well acquainted with the reservation and Navajo customs, acting as liaison between the tribal police and the Bureau. Not that Blalock would have jumped at the chance. The last thing he needed was one more job.

  Since Blalock’s last partner, Lucas Payestewa, had been transferred back to northern Arizona, Blalock’s workload had been brutal. Paycheck, the nickname some of the Navajo officers had given the young Hopi agent, had turned out to be a real asset to local law enforcement, but his continual call for more resources in the Four Corners states had annoyed his supervisors, and he’d been transferred in May.

  All things considered, Lucas would have been a great ally to have in a case like this. Trying to find an FBI agent who’d interrupted a religious and healing ceremony would take skill and patience, and Paycheck would have understood that well from his own background. And now, without either Blalock or Payestewa around, she was afraid that the Bureau might try to rush things, not realizing until it was too late was that they’d have to adapt to the rules here to make progress. Thinking outside the box and working around cultural differences was what the Bureau did least well, in her opinion.

  For the tribal police it was a no-win situation, no matter how she looked at it. Any efforts they made to find the agent would be perceived as siding with the Anglos—and working against the Dineh’s cultural traditions. Anyone interrupting a Sing was supposed to be punished, and virtually every Navajo would back that notion.

  But if Agent Thomas turned up dead, then the Rez could become an armed camp. The Bureau wouldn’t let one of their own go down at the hands of a Navajo, or Navajos, without insisting someone pay the price. Law-enforcement people lived with a lot of anger, and that came to the forefront with a vengeance when an agent or a cop was killed.

  Ella arrived at the Bureau’s office in less than ten minutes. The door was halfway open, so she stepped inside. A slightly balding Anglo man in a suit was sitting behind Blalock’s large metal desk going through a stack of files. Except for the tall stacks of paperwork on both desks and an open file cabinet, the place looked completely normal to her, having been there often over the past two or three years.

  The man looked up as she came in. A scowl was on his face. “About time. Tribal police, right? Ella Clah?”

  Ella looked at the badge hooked to her belt, then back at him. “Either that or I’ve stolen her badge.”

  His expression didn’t change. “Sit. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover quickly. I’ve got to leave soon to catch a plane to D.C.”

  Papers were stacked high on Thomas’s desk chair, so there was no place to sit without moving a foot-high stack of folders. Ella stood instead, eyeing the man.

  Simmons looked vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn’t place him. He was a fairly nondescript man with ruddy cheeks, graying brown hair, wire-frame glasses, and relatively fit for a man around fifty years old. All in all, he looked like a midlevel bureaucrat who worked out at the gym after hours but rarely ventured outdoors except to walk to his car.

  “I was hoping to find something I could use, but all these reports are old and mostly generic crap. Blalock was supposed to supervise the kid and make sure everything was done right—for a change. What was I thinking? Blalock’s reports blow, and so do the kid’s.”

  Simmons shook his head and continued. “New resident agents like Thomas are the worst. Once they finally earn their badges they think it’ll all be downhill from there. A little overconfidence goes a long ways, and too many college punks coming out of Quantico just can’t cut it on the streets. The Bureau invests all that time and money trying to bring them up to snuff, then has to weed them out. You know what I mean. Those agents who can’t cut it drop out after a year or two, then take some BS job in local law enforcement.” He stared hard at her, leaving no doubt that he was including her in his assessment.

  Ella met his gaze coldly. It was a snarky comment meant to put her down, to imply that she wasn’t quite as good as he was because he’d stayed with the Bureau and she hadn’t. Ella bit back her anger knowing Simmons was looking for a reaction. She’d lose her temper, he’d keep his cool and, in the process, make her feel that she’d just proven his point. But she wasn’t playing his game.

  “You’re the one who has lost an agent, so maybe you should stop wasting time and tell me what you’ve got. I need a starting point,” she said.

  He looked at her in silence, then to hide the fact that it had taken him a moment to reconnect his brain cells, he cleared his throat. “All I can find out from this debris is that he was in the middle of a suspected fraud case that led him to an area southeast of Shiprock near someplace called Sanostee.”

  “Not a lot of people live out that way. And fraud’s not generally federal turf unless a government agency is involved. What’s the rest of the story?” Ella pressed.

  “That’s the sum total of what I found in his log book.” Simmons pointed to a black leather portfolio on an office chair beside a small table also covered with papers. “If he ever did compile a file on the case he was investigating, he has
it with him. But maybe you can find something useful in this mess. You’re welcome to try,” he said, waving his arm over the dozens of files stacked on Thomas’s desk and beside his chair on the floor. “But keep this to yourself ‘cause, officially I can’t have non-Bureau personnel go browsing through our files.”

  Ella knew that Blalock was far from neat, but he did file things. Maybe Thomas was worse, but nothing could compare to the damage Simmons had already done to the office. “You must have pulled out every file.”

  “I was looking for anything that involved fraud—current or archived. But since I haven’t even got a name, I didn’t know where to start. To get into Blalock’s computer I would have needed his password, which I don’t have. Since this office isn’t guaranteed secure, his software erases the files after two failed attempts to hack in.”

  He waved a hand toward the other desk. “Thomas’s computer crashed three days ago and his files were deleted,” he continued. “I tried to retrieve the data anyway, but it’s lost except for bits and pieces. I’ll take the CPU back with me to Albuquerque and let our tech support try to reconstruct some of the missing files.”

  Simmons glanced at his watch. “After that, I’ll be on my way to D.C. to make a presentation. It’s a Bureau seminar I can’t get out of now, but I should be back tomorrow evening. Other agents are already in the field as we speak. I’ve got teams searching off the reservation in San Juan and adjacent counties, and outside New Mexico as well, especially northeastern Arizona.

  “If they turn up anything, they’ll forward it to me through the Albuquerque field office and I’ll pass it on to you. I expect you to do the same for me.” He scribbled a number on the back, then handed her his card containing the Albuquerque numbers.

  “Of course.” Her tone brought the office temperature down by at least twenty degrees. “By the way, is there the remotest possibility that Agent Thomas’s failure to remain in contact is due to personal reasons unrelated to his work?”

  “Hell, Clah, I suppose if you wanted to consider all the possibilities, he could have been abducted by aliens. Or maybe he just got lost or ran off the road into a ditch. Either way, he’s missing and has to be located.”

  “I’ll find him if he’s on the Navajo Nation,” Ella said.

  “One last thing, Clah. You report only to me. Get it?”

  “No, actually until the FBI starts issuing my paychecks, I report to Chief Atcitty. He, in turn, will keep you in the loop.”

  Simmons cursed. “You know what I mean. You’re not to call the Bureau directly—you speak to me first and I’ll handle any requests you make, and direct them down the proper channels. This includes any search warrants, which shouldn’t take long because I’ve already contacted the U.S. magistrate. My cell number is on the back of the card.”

  She nodded, suddenly realizing what was going on. Politics were at hand. The Bureau didn’t want word to get out, except to the agents already on the case, that Navajo officers were helping them track down one of their own.

  “We’d also appreciate extreme discretion when you talk to anyone outside the reservation about this case,” Simmons said, and looked at his watch again. “I’ve got to leave right now or I’ll never make it. I’ll expect a preliminary report in four hours or less,” he said, standing up.

  Simmons grabbed Thomas’s CPU, which had already been disconnected, looked around at the piles of folders, then groaned. “Good luck sorting through everything here, Clah. Close the door for me, will you? It locks automatically.”

  Before she could comment, Simmons was out the door. Ella exhaled softly then turned around, taking in every detail. In his zeal to do a quick search, Simmons had just made things worse by pulling folders out randomly. Nothing followed a logical sequence now.

  Ella walked over to Blalock’s desk and decided to have a quick look at his computer. Although she hadn’t told Simmons, she knew Blalock’s current password. Years ago he’d started giving her the new one each time he’d changed it. She understood it was only to be used in case of an emergency—and this certainly qualified as one. If Agent Thomas had filed duplicate reports with Dwayne Blalock, she’d find them.

  Ella turned on the computer, waited for the system to boot up, then typed in “NBR1RDNK,” Blalock’s latest password—short for number one redneck. Once on, she searched the data files, starting with the most recent date. She was familiar with the software, and recognized most of the cases Blalock was working because they were connected with the tribe, but none of them were in any way related to fraud. Logging back out, Ella started to check the file folders, but soon realized that it would take hours.

  Picking up her cell phone, Ella dialed Officer Tache, the third officer permanently assigned to the Special Investigations unit. Taking him off his other duties, she gave Ralph the job of sorting through the files while she concentrated on gathering everything she could about the Sing. Simmons didn’t have to know.

  Suddenly she heard the sound of footsteps over by the door and remembered she hadn’t bothered to shut it. Ella glanced up and saw a face she recognized.

  THREE

  “Hey, Teeny. How’ve you been?” she greeted him warmly. She’d known Bruce Little almost all of her life. Theirs was a peculiar friendship and, to date, she was still the only human being since third grade who could call him Teeny and not end up requiring facial reconstruction, or worse.

  Teeny had always had a soft spot for her. Ella knew it, Teeny knew it, but nothing had ever been said or done about it, and probably never would. Teeny had joined the department before she had, but his skills with computers had persuaded Big Ed to take him out of the field and reassign him to a desk.

  Teeny had become their information technology expert and had set up and maintained the computer network in the department and kept the system going even after it had become obsolete. A year after he’d installed and debugged their most recent system, Teeny had been laid off due to budget cuts. Big Ed had protested, knowing how valuable Teeny was, but he’d been overruled by the tribal leadership.

  Teeny had quickly set up his own business, serving as a computer and Internet consultant in the Four Corners area and now the tribal police had to hire him frequently to maintain or repair their network and computers. Using his police training and imposing appearance, Teeny also did more traditional police-type jobs, like providing security for big events in the area.

  “How’s business?” she asked.

  “Not bad. Got two shops now. One across the hall and another in downtown Farmington. People still have problems with their networks, but they don’t usually want to hire someone full-time as a computer geek. The other half of my work, handling security, is also booming. It’s got me thinking of applying for a private investigator’s license. I could expand and take on a variety of jobs. There’s lots of times when people need a big guy on their side, you know, even if it’s just collecting from deadbeats.”

  And big he was. Ella was pushing five ten, but Bruce Little towered over her like one of the rock formations in Monument Valley. He hadn’t sculpted himself a body builder’s torso either. Teeny had meat on him, like two oil drums with a basketball on top. Yet anyone who thought he was fat or lazy quickly discovered the man was not only as strong as a bear but surprisingly quick.

  During his days in the police department, Teeny had kept his hair shorter than regulation, but now it was just a shade longer than peach fuzz. Combined with his small, dark eyes and often spaced-out expressions, Teeny gave the impression that he had the IQ of a tree stump, which just went to prove that appearances could be deceiving.

  Teeny was a self-described big, ugly dude, but Ella had always liked him. He was intelligent and inventive. More often than not he used his head and common sense to avoid confrontations even though he could have bullied others into giving him what he wanted by sheer size alone.

  “What’s with the ‘I’m important’ bilagáana in the suit?” he asked, using the Navajo word for “white man.” “Simmo
ns—I think. He Agent Thomas’s boss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hope Andy Thomas hasn’t stepped in something serious. The kid loves his job, but he’s still not with the program.” Teeny walked into the office, looking at the stacks of files curiously.

  “What do you know about Agent Thomas?” Ella asked.

  “Andy’s a hard worker. He never gives up. If he had, he wouldn’t be in the FBI,” he said, then pointed to a photo on Thomas’s desk.

  Ella picked it up. On the fading print was a young Andy Thomas standing by an old VW van that could have optimistically been described as falling apart. A middle-aged woman was next to the red-haired, freckle-faced teen. “Not from a wealthy family, I take it?”

  “I commented on the VW one day and he told me that was his home the first two years of college. Andy got a scholarship that paid for books and tuition, but the money didn’t go far, so living in that vehicle was the only way he could afford to stay in school. During that time he lived on bread and cans of pork and beans, and, to this day, he says he can’t eat beans without gagging,” Teeny answered. “That’s his mother with him. She worked as a housekeeper and sent him money when she could. Now that she’s older and sick, he supports her.”

  Ella thought of her own mother, Rose, and how close they were. In Andy’s shoes, she would have done the same thing.

  “I don’t know about you but my tribal scholarship paid for nearly all of my school-related expenses. I’m not sure I would have stuck with it if I’d had to live in a van,” Teeny said.

  “I only applied for a partial scholarship the first year, thinking that I could make it on part-time jobs. That was a mistake. I didn’t live in a car, but I had to move in with a friend for half a semester.”

  Teeny chose Blalock’s extra-large brown leather chair and made himself comfortable. “Andy’s heart is in the right place, but he’s really clueless about the way things work around here. The first week he was on the Rez he went out to interview people wearing a suit, like the guy who was just here. Old Navajos would see him coming and never answer their doors. Andy would end up with nothing to talk to except a horse and some sheep—that’s if the dogs didn’t run him off first.”