“Do you believe he could have done something like that?”
She did not reply for what seemed like a long time. He listened to the electronic hum that linked them, wondering what she was thinking.
“I don’t know what to believe, Mr. Easton,” he heard her say. “But right now I don’t see what I could usefully contribute to the situation.”
“And you don’t want to, anyway.”
He thought he heard an if-only-you-knew sigh and decided not to like Joanna Ironheel much.
“Will he get bail?” she asked.
“I doubt it.”
“When is he to be arraigned?”
“Monday morning, about ten.”
“He’s got a lawyer?”
A chill touched Easton’s spine. “One was appointed,” he said. “A man named Jerry Weddle. Didn’t he call you?”
“Nobody called me except the Riverside police.”
“You’re quite sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she said, frosting it.
Then Weddle’s second call was not to Joanna Ironheel. So who did he call? I must get those phone records, he reminded himself again.
“Ms. Ironheel, it really would be helpful if you could get down here.”
“I can’t imagine what purpose that would serve,” The impatient tone was back in her voice.
“I’d like to talk to you about James. Get some idea of his mind-set.”
He thought he heard a derisive little laugh and liked her still less.
“Sorry, I can’t help you,” she said. “I don’t have the remotest idea what his mind-set might be. I’m not sure he does, either.”
Easton shrugged, as if she could see him. “Any message you want me to give him?”
“Yes,” she said fiercely. “Tell him I said ahaga’he.”
“What does that mean?”
“It doesn’t translate.”
Chapter Ten
Well over an hour after he talked to her, the implications of what Joanna Ironheel had told him were still fluttering around in Easton’s brain like moths round a floodlight. The fact that Weddle had not called her – he could think of no reason why she would lie about it – blew wide open again the matter of whom the attorney had called prior to his murder, not to mention whether it was a walk-in killing or something else. Well, no point trying to contact the phone company at this time of night; it would have to wait until morning.
For some reason a picture of James Ironheel – sitting on the cot in his jail cell with that strange entreaty in his eyes, like he was trying to say help me, yet unable to speak the words – kept floating into Easton’s mind’s eye. He knew he hadn’t imagined it. Gut instinct told him that something – not being able to put a finger on it only made it worse – was very wrong. Finally, with a grunt of exasperation, he gave up. The only way to settle this was to talk to Ironheel again.
But this time alone.
The air was much cooler as he went back across the street. It was well after midnight now. The sky was blue-black and the stars seemed more brilliant than ever, millions of them up there. We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. Who said that?
He went up the ramp and into the building. The RO watch had changed, and Easton found senior deputy Jack Basso on duty. He had his nose in a copy of Guns & Ammo, and Easton suddenly had this picture of thousands of night-shift deputies all over the country reading male-interest magazines and getting paid by the hour to do it.
“Jack,” he said.
“Jee-zuss, Dave,” Basso growled, without getting up. “You got insomnia, or what?”
He was above medium height, with massive shoulders and a bull neck, heavy jowls bulging over a size sixteen collar. Even in the air-conditioned office, his forehead glistened with sweat. They said Basso had Navajo blood and Easton was more than ready to believe it. Foul mouthed, ugly-tempered and sadistic, Basso took perverse pride in being SO’s badass. Well, there were times when you needed one, Easton thought. You didn’t have to love him.
“Ironheel,” he said, making it peremptory. “In the interview room.”
“Now?” Basso said incredulously.
“Now,” Easton snapped.
Basso frowned and got up clumsily, the way a big man will who has been sitting too long. “What is this about, Dave?” he said.
Easton knew what was bothering him. Basso knew all interviews with prisoners must be recorded, but he also knew chief deputies didn’t always comply with the rules. Easton helped him decide by setting off down the corridor. Out the corner of an eye he saw Basso shrug and get the keycard from its case. Done and dusted.
He went into the interview room and waited. A few minutes later Basso brought Ironheel in. When he saw who was waiting for him the Apache’s eyes widened fractionally in quickly concealed surprise.
“You want me to stay?” Basso asked. That was part of the rules, too.
“Thanks, but this will only take a few minutes, Jack.”
Basso frowned, reluctant to let it go. “You sure? Suppose this asshole decides to get physical?”
“He won’t get physical,” Easton said.
“Kind of wish he would,” Basso growled. “Be a pleasure to kick his fuckin’ ass.”
“Shinii’godoléh hela’!” Ironheel growled, and Basso’s face twisted with anger.
“Anytime, asshole!” he growled, bristling.
“Go on out, Jack!” Easton said, pointing at the door. “I won’t be long.”
Basso’s face set surly, like he wanted to disobey. He looked at Ironheel again, his hands working, then turned on his heel and went out, slamming the door hard. The hate in the room went out with him. Easton sat down facing Ironheel. The prisoner’s face and body were totally immobile. Only the eyes were alive.
“What was that you said to him?” Easton asked.
“Don’t make me angry.”
Basso’s reaction suggested it had been something stronger than that, Easton thought, but he left it there. Ironheel’s dark eyes bored into his, as if the Apache was trying to see right into his soul. The silence submerged them like deep water. How did the Conquistadors communicate with them, Easton wondered, before they spoke Spanish or English? Sign language, maybe. Did anybody still talk the sign language they had used? A minute went by, another.
“So,” he said into the silence. “Here I am.”
He thought he detected a faint glimmer of what might have been surprise
in Ironheel’s eyes. Like, maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought you were. He wondered if from Ironheel’s point of view that might almost be considered a compliment. The seconds ticked away silently into perhaps two more minutes.
“So?” he said again.
“Baa natsékees ni’,” Ironheel said.
“You’ve been … thinking it over?”
Ironheel showed genuine surprise. “You speak Apache?”
“Not really. A few phrases.”
“Pretty unusual.”
Easton shrugged. “I talked to your sister,” he said.
Nothing showed on Ironheel’s face.
“She said to give you a message. Ahaga’he.”
He thought he saw another fleeting glint of amusement in the dark eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure.
“Did I say it right?”
“Close enough.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s an old Apache warning,” Ironheel said. “They don’t use it much anymore. Something like, Enough, no more of this.”
Easton nodded. “I got the impression she’s good and mad at you. Not just this, but generally. Why is that?”
“Sisters,” he said with a minimal shrug, as if no further explanation was necessary. Easton knew there was a whole protocol in the life of a male Apache where sisters were concerned.
“That how you feel?”
Twin furrows appeared between his brows. “Huh?”
“Ahaga’he. No more of this.”
Again the minimal shrug, like the question wasn’t worth a reply. Ironheel stared fixedly at the wall as if it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. The same look Easton had seen in his eyes the night before was back. Unease, or maybe uncertainty was nearer the mark. A picture of Jessye when she had been mischievous and knew it, flashed into his mind.
What have you been doing?
You’ll be mad if I tell you.
“There’s something you want to tell me, right?”
“Doo begots’ííd da,” Ironheel said. That meant something like, it’s useless, no point.
“Why not?”
No answer. He was getting used to that.
“You’re looking at life, Ironheel,” Easton said, reminding him. “The rest of your life in jail.”
Nothing. No reaction, not even a blink.
“For something you didn’t do?”
Ironheel’s eyes came up, locked with Easton’s. Like he was searching for something. Hope?
“Tell me what really happened,” Easton said.
Ironheel turned his head away, staring at the side wall again. Every nuance of his body language shouted psychic pain. Easton tried again.
“It wasn’t you,” he said, sure now. “Somebody else killed them, right? Who, Ironheel? Who was it?”
No answer, no movement. He waited. There was no way to hurry this. He remained seated as Ironheel got up and shuffled around the room, looking closely at the walls, his eyes narrowed with concentration. The steel shackles on his ankles clinked arhythmically as he moved from one wall to the next, and then the next.
“There are no cameras or recording devices in this room,” Easton said.
Ironheel grunted. Oh yeah.
“That’s why Weddle brought you in here. That’s why you and I are here now. No one but me can hear what you say.”
The Apache made another derisive sound.
“I can’t make you believe it,” Easton said.
It was one of the few universal rules in law enforcement, as mandatory in California as in Connecticut: no eavesdropping, no filming, no recordings of any kind in interview rooms. As all too many prosecutors had discovered to their cost, listening in on a defendant’s privileged conversation with his attorney was the shortest known route to deepest shit. It was an obvious temptation, of course, but if it happened and a judge got to know about it, your case was down the toilet before you even scribbled your notes for an opening statement.
“Take a chance, Ironheel,” he said. “Trust someone.”
Ironheel sat down again and rested his forearms on the table, looking him straight in the eyes. Again Easton waited, saying nothing. There was no need to fill up the silence with words. Ironheel was an Apache. If he was going to say anything, he’d say it. If not, not.
“Aasidilí. Cops. You stick together,” he said.
“You don’t trust cops? You don’t trust me? Which?”
“Both.”
“You don’t know anything about me. Yet you already made up your mind.”
Another scornful look. “Got no reason to trust you.”
“True. And I can’t give you one.”
Ironheel fell silent again, his face completely unreadable. It was like being in a cave with a Stone Age man. Again Easton waited. The silence lasted what seemed a very long time. It might have been three minutes, maybe more. Then Ironheel’s head moved. It was no more than a minimal nod, but it hinted at a decision being made, and Easton felt a tiny tremor of anticipation.
“Nohwegodeyaa,” Ironheel said. “Time to talk.”
Easton held up a hand, wait. Ironheel frowned.
“Before we start, you must understand the rules,” Easton told him. “You talk, I listen. That’s it. No matter what you tell me, I can’t make any kind of a deal with you.”
“Not looking for a deal.” His tone was disdainful. “But …” He hesitated. “This thing would bring shame on my sister.”
“You care about that.”
Ironheel said nothing, and Easton remembered the Apache protocol. Never interrupt the speaker until he has finished.
“Sorry.”
Ironheel shrugged an acknowledgement. “That lawyer who got killed, Weddle,” he said. “That was my fault.”
The admission was so candid Easton had to work hard to suppress his reaction. “What makes you think that?”
“He knew the truth,” Ironheel said. “About the hastiin. The old man and the boy.”
“The truth,” Easton said, fighting the impulse to rush it, instinctively knowing that if he uttered any of the hundred questions forming in his head Ironheel would clam up. Ironheel nodded as if confirming the thought, his dark gaze unwaveringly direct.
“Da’adiihi,” he said. “You want the truth?”
“If you want to tell it to me,” Easton replied gravely.
“Ha’ah,” Ironheel said, letting out his breath. “N’zhoo. This is my story now from the beginning. That day, the day of the murders, there was a piece in the Riverside paper about a couple from the East who had just bought a big place up at Yellow Lake. It sounded like they had plenty of money and I figured maybe, them being new, they might need someone to do yard work.”
“You went there?” Easton said, making a mental note to check the newspapers. “On foot?”
“Tried this.” Ironheel made a hitchhiking gesture with his thumb. “But nobody stopped.”
Nobody did anymore, not around Riverside anyway. A couple of years back a custody had escaped from the State detention center south of town, hitched a ride with an elderly couple, butchered both of them, dumped the bodies in a ditch and lit out for Texas in their Toyota. He was still on the New Mexico Most Wanted list.
“So you walked up to Yellow Lake. That’s quite a hike.”
Ironheel shrugged.
“And then?”
“It was locked up tight. Steel shutters, padlocks. Nobody there.”
“So what did you do?”
A shrug. “Headed back to the highway.”
Easton called up the map in his mind. Yellow Lake lay a mile or two north of Garcia Flat. To get back to the highway, Ironheel would have had to follow a twin track that ran south till it met the dirt road running west. The arroyo where Casey and the boy had been killed would run pretty much parallel to that track.
“What kind of trail was it?”
“Just a twin track, running south.”
That checked. “And?” Easton said.
“Took a shortcut, over the rimrock,” Ironheel said. “Saw two men down below, one a big guy, the other older, not so tall. Hunkered down, waiting. Then a big black Lexus came up the draw.”
“Casey,” Easton said.
An impatient nod, don’t interrupt.
“The hastiin, the grandfather got out, left the door open. The three men talked a few minutes. Then the boy shouted something and the old man started arguing with the big guy, angry. The other guy just stepped up and blew his brains out, sproosh. Like in that Zapruder film when they killed Kennedy.”
He drew in a long breath, let it out slowly. His eyes searched Easton’s for any hint of disbelief. He need not have bothered. Easton believed him.
“Then nchaahi, the big one, dragged the boy out of the car but the boy broke loose and ran into the brush. Nchaahi went after him. I couldn’t see where. Couple of minutes later he came back. He had a knife in his hand. He stuck it in the ground to clean it.”
“Describe him.”
“Cho. Big. Blond hair, leather jacket, jeans. Like that Terminator guy.”
“Schwarzenegger?”
“Ha’ah.”
“What happened then?”
“He got the hastiin’s billfold, took the money. Then his watch, put it in his pocket. Then the two of them headed up the arroyo on foot.”
“Not toward the highway?”
A headshake, no. “Hadah,” Ironheel said. “Up the arroyo. North.”
“Did you hear a car starting up? Anythi
ng?”
Ironheel shook his head, his eyes blank with remembering.
“What did you do then?”
“Went down when they were gone. The hastiin was dead. There was blood everywhere. Found the billfold and got an ID. Went up the arroyo, found the boy. You know what that was like.”
“That’s when you got the blood on your clothes.”
“Ha’ah.” His eyes were watchful now, waiting.
“Why didn’t you report the murders?”
Ironheel made a contemptuous sound. “Cops don’t believe anything Apache say.”
“So you took off.”
“Ha’ah.”
“Tell me about when the two State Policemen arrested you.”
Ironheel looked at the wall. “There could have been some killing there. But there was none.”
“You saying you could have killed them but you didn’t?”
Ironheel nodded, his eyes hooded. “Ha’ah.”
“What happened?”
“One of them said ‘This fucking Neanderthal killed an old man and a kid in cold blood, let’s just blow his fucking brains out and save everybody a lot of time and money.’”
“They were going to kill you?”
“Ha’ah.”
“Wait a minute. If they were going to kill you, why did the officer fire into the air when you ran?”
“Doo ágágot’éé da lehn,” the Apache said impatiently. “It wasn’t like that. They had their guns out, told me to start running. That could only mean one thing, ley fuga. Killed trying to escape.”
“Why didn’t you tell us all this right at the beginning?”
“Would you have believed it?”
“What makes you think I will now?”
Ironheel made no reply, keeping his face still, watchful.
“You could have asked for an attorney as soon as they brought you in,” Easton said. “And told him what had happened.”
“Doo bigonedzaa do,” Ironheel said. “Not possible.”
“Why?”
Ironheel’s eyes burned with the message in them: no matter what else you choose to accept or reject, this, whether you want to or not, is the part you have to believe.
“Because the man who shot the hastiin was standing there.”
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