by T. Greenwood
He kept searching. NAU alumnus and major donor. MBA from ASU.
Ben returned to the state site. There he was again, an older version of his son, red tie, black suit. From what Ben could gather as his eyes darted through the paragraphs, and his mouse scrolled down through the pages, Martin Bello was an Arizona native, born and raised in Prescott. After business school, he’d stayed in Phoenix and became a real estate developer. He was responsible for the development of more than one hundred condominium and town house complexes in the Scottsdale and Paradise Valley area. He was a Republican, serving his third term in the Arizona State House of Representatives. Three years ago he had put in a bid for state senate but had lost. His ambitions now were of the gubernatorial sort.
Frank hadn’t been dicking around. He was running for governor. Christ.
Ben left the site and Googled Bello’s name again. More political stuff, including a campaign site. Some real estate pages. And then here, a transcript of a public meeting regarding the development of a condominium complex near the Snowbowl in Flagstaff. Ben vaguely remembered this from years ago. It was back when the Snowbowl had first started talking about using reclaimed water to make snow. The Native Americans had been fighting it ever since, arguing that the San Francisco Peaks are sacred to their religion and that the use of reclaimed water was a desecration. He remembered someone comparing it to asking Catholics to use toilet water as holy water. The opponents argued that without snowmaking, the tourism industry in Flagstaff would die.
Ben knew how a bad snow season could affect the economy in Flagstaff. There had been several barren winters in a row when Jack’s was virtually empty every night. Just the locals buying their cheap beer and well drinks. Without snow, there were no skiers. Without skiers, there was no tourism. Without tourism, there was no money coming through town. And without tourism, there would certainly be no need for a bunch of brand-new condos. From what Ben could glean from the transcript, Martin Bello had a huge interest in snowmaking at the Snowbowl.
He Googled the words snowmaking snowbowl flagstaff and found a zillion sites discussing the controversy: article after article after article.
The Snowbowl, though privately owned, is on national forest land, making this anyone, everyone’s game. The Navajo and Hopi, who performed religious ceremonies on the Peaks, claimed that the use of reclaimed water to make snow disregarded their rights as defined by the Religious Freedom Restoration Act. The environmentalists were worried about the safety and environmental impact of using treated sewage water to make snow. But for the business owners, people like Martin Bello, it all came down to money.
Ben searched for Bello on this page and sure enough, there he was: “As my voting record shows, I have the utmost respect for the Native population in Arizona. I have consistently voted in favor of the rights of indigenous people. However, it seems to me that the decision of the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals to overturn its original denial of the Snowbowl’s right to make snow is for the greater good of this city. And an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court seems inappropriate.”
Bello had a hell of a lot more to worry about than selling condos. It certainly wouldn’t help his campaign for governor if his son were arrested in the beating death of one such indigenous person.
Despite the cool blast of air from the AC vent, Ben was sweating. He closed down his browser and went to get a cup of water from the cooler. Bello was clearly a powerful guy, well connected, with a lot at stake. Ben had no idea how far he was willing to go to keep all of this quiet, but if what happened to Lucky was any indication, then Ben knew that Shadi was probably wise to return home to Chinle, and, if he was smart too, he’d just pretend this had never happened.
But Ben’s stomach roiled at the thought of letting go. Acid rose in his throat, and he swallowed more water to make it go back down. He needed to do something, but he had no idea what. This wasn’t about Shadi anymore, no matter what she thought or said. This was about corruption and greed. Murder.
Ben felt his chest swell with purpose. He would make everything right again. Even if it meant breaking his promise to Shadi. To Sara.
BLACK AND WHITE WORLD
Sara slept. Like a Grimm’s fairy-tale princess, she lay prone, flitting in and out of sleep. During the day, she rested by the pool, a pitcher of ice water sweating beside her. In the afternoons, when the sun became too hot, she moved to the living room, where she lay prostrate on the couch. Then, by early evening, when the sky turned orange and pink and the air cooled, she retired to the bedroom, where the ceiling fan spun lazily above her.
It was a life of strange repose.
But while Sara rested, Ben schemed. While she lay in languor, Ben found himself restless. Wide awake and buzzing with a renewed sense of purpose. He had started getting up at five and swimming for an hour every morning. In the pool was where he did his best thinking. The cold water cleared his head, and the rhythmic strokes were meditative. In the cool green depths of the water, he was formulating his plan. As he did the back stroke, the side stroke, the breast stroke, he was ruminating, contemplating, planning. Every morning for the last two weeks he had slipped into the pool, and as his arms and legs and lungs worked, his mind was free to strategize. He knew he could not be rash. He would not make the error of impatience, of impulsiveness again.
He could not go to the police, not yet. Clearly, they had made little to no headway with their investigation, and when Lucky had tipped off the police, he’d wound up in the hospital. Shadi had told him that Lucky did not plan to press charges. At this point, Ben was pretty sure that Mark Fitch and Joe Bello both knew that he was involved somehow, and he was also certain that one false step on his part might have devastating consequences. For him. And for Shadi.
He knew that ultimately what he needed was to find another witness, someone else who had been there. If he could find just one person at the party to speak up, one of them, to come forward, then maybe the police would listen. Maybe then everything would be exposed. He had to believe that Lucky had been wrong, that justice was possible, even for someone like Ricky. He had to believe that there was someone at the party who had a conscience. Someone else who wasn’t sleeping at night because of what they knew. He just had to find that person.
“What are you doing?” he asked Sara. “Shopping?”
Ben had told Sara that Shadi had a family emergency and had to return to the reservation. She would not be able to make the rug. Sara had been shopping for one online ever since.
She was lying on a lawn chair, clicking on her laptop, as he emerged from the pool and grabbed his towel. Her skin was turning a soft gold from all of the sun. Her hair bleaching out to a pale butter color. Her belly was a small bump now, like half of a basketball inside her bathing suit.
“Just chatting,” she said.
“With?” he asked, rubbing the towel across his head and then wrapping it around his waist.
“This girl Laney,” she said, looking up at him. “She’s due the same week that I am, and she’s on bed rest too.”
“Huh,” Ben said. “Where does she live?”
“California somewhere. Sacramento, I think.”
“What do you talk about?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Baby stuff. Other stuff. She’s having a rough time because her husband just got deployed to Iraq. She’s living with her sister, but her sister works sixty hours a week, and she’s all by herself all day long. She’s got preeclampsia, and she’s really scared. I just try to distract her, I guess.” Sara shrugged again. “Keep her company.”
As difficult as working at the hospital had been for Sara, he knew she missed it. For the first week after she was mandated to stay in bed, she talked about the hospital all the time. She talked about Emma. She was still in touch with Emma’s mother, who had invited Sara to the memorial service. He knew she had wanted to be there. He’d brought flowers to her that day after work: a bouquet of pink roses that had since shrugged off their petals and sat wilting in
a vase on the kitchen counter. Without nursing, and stuck in bed, Sara was at a loss as to how to bide her time. All the energy that went into taking care of people had nowhere to go.
Her mother brought her books by the dozen from the library and an armload of magazines, but she soon grew bored with the stories and tired of the tabloids. Melanie came the first weekend and tried to teach Sara how to knit, but she was frustrated when the stitches slipped and gave up as soon as Melanie went back home, the scarf unraveling into a fuzzy purple mess. She watched movie after movie but usually fell asleep before they ended.
Finally, when her birthday came a week later, her father had wrapped up a pretty pink laptop in a pretty pink ribbon, arranged for wireless service to be installed in the house, and it was like a prince’s kiss. Now she shopped for baby things online, squandered hours on Facebook, and chatted in virtual rooms with other women who were lying in their own beds all over the world. He imagined a network of these sleeping beauties, all lying in wait as the babies inside them incubated.
“You should start your own Web site or something, a blog maybe. There must be a lot of women on bed rest.”
“That is a great idea,” she said, her eyes widening. She looked at him in disbelief. “I mean, a really, really good idea. I could call it …” She clapped her hands together. “Bedtime Stories!”
Ben shook his wet hair and wiped his feet off before stepping through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen. He could hear Sara’s fingers furiously tapping even after he slid the doors closed.
Now they both had a project. And Sara would be occupied while he figured out where to go from here.
Frank had handed the reins over to Ben at the dealership but still came by every Friday afternoon to check in on him and the rest of the staff and then take Ben out for a long lunch. Most Fridays they got back so late, Ben just had time to grab his stuff and head back home. This week, Friday could not come soon enough. Before Ben did anything, he wanted to get more of a sense of exactly who he was dealing with, what sort of man this Martin Bello was, though he certainly had his suspicions. Ben knew that Frank was in the know in Arizona politics. He and Jeanine had been huge supporters of McCain throughout the years and, according to Jeanine, Cindy even called her once for advice on flower arrangements after attending a fund-raiser hosted by the Harmons at their house. Getting the dirt on a little guy like Bello would be nothing. If he could just figure out how to slip it into the conversation.
“Dr. Bailey,” Frank said, ushering him ahead of him into the restaurant. Usually they went to Chili’s, but today, Frank had insisted on driving all the way to the Pointe Hilton at Tapatio Cliffs. He said he was craving their shrimp scampi, and a plate of Texas cheese fries would not cut it.
The resort was breathtaking. Like Disneyland for grownups. Frank and Jeanine had taken him and Sara here once before, to the Different Pointe of View, the hotel’s restaurant, which teetered a couple thousand feet up a mountaintop with a vertiginous view of the city below. That was two years ago, after Ben had proposed to Sara.
They were seated at a two-top, and Frank ordered them each a martini.
“What’s the occasion, Frank?” Ben asked. He knew this had to do with more than the scampi.
Frank laughed a hearty laugh and said, “Cut to the chase, right, Dr. Bailey?”
Ben smiled.
“Listen, Benny, I know you and Sara have reserved the lodge up at the Snowbowl for the wedding, but I’ve been thinking that maybe, now that you’ve moved down here, it would be easier to plan a wedding at home.”
Home. Ben wasn’t sure he would ever think of Phoenix as home.
“We put a deposit down,” Ben said.
Frank waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll reimburse.”
Ben suddenly felt uncomfortable. The waitress brought them their drinks and he took a big swallow of his. The gin was warm and thick going down.
“What did you have in mind, Frank?” Ben asked. He thought maybe the country club. Or perhaps their backyard. Jeanine had hosted some pretty spectacular events at their home, including Sara’s brother’s wedding.
Frank motioned for the waitress to come back. “Can I get some extra olives, please?”
Ben waited.
Frank cleared his throat. “Did you look around much when we came in?”
“The hotel?”
“Pretty nice place, huh? Might be a spectacular venue for a wedding.” Frank winked.
Ben raised his eyebrows. “Frank, this might be a little on the extravagant side, don’t you think?”
“Just think about it, Benny. They’ve got indoor and outdoor facilities for the wedding and for the reception. They’ve got a bridal suite, and our out-of-town guests could stay here as well.”
“Frank, I really don’t think Sara and I can afford this. I’ve only been working for you for a couple of months, and now that Sara’s on bed rest …”
“Consider it done,” Frank said. “Sara is my baby girl. And this is only going to happen once. Nothing would make me happier than to be able to give her, give you both, this day.”
Ben shook his head and sighed. He looked at Frank and wondered if someday he’d be sitting across from his own daughter’s fiancé, making a similar offer.
“What does Sara think?” Ben asked. He was pretty certain he was the last to hear the proposal.
“Sara thinks a sunset wedding might be nice.”
By the time their lunch arrived, all of the plans, which clearly preceded him by at least a month, were spelled out. Terrace reception, outdoor ceremony at sunset, Grande Ballroom reception, and a night in the bridal suite before they flew to Puerta Vallarta (or Cabo or Jamaica—because, really, the honeymoon was up to them).The menu was still up in the air, as was the music, but Frank had a friend who owned a DJ company and owed Frank a favor; Ben and Sara would just need to make the playlist. Ben didn’t ask how much any of this would cost, because he knew the answer didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Ben showed up.
“How many guests?” Ben asked.
“Well, I think if we can keep it to three hundred or so, we’ll be good.”
Ben was pretty sure he could count his invitees on two hands. That left approximately two hundred ninety from Sara’s side.
Frank rattled off the details: the available dates, the name of the nanny who could accompany them on their honeymoon to watch the baby, the option of having an in-house wedding planner.
After the second martini, Ben’s head was swimmy, his neck tired from all the nodding. He wanted nothing more than to go home early and sink into the pool.
“We’re good, then?” Frank asked.
“Sure, Frank.”
Emboldened by the booze and ready to talk about anything other than the wedding, the plans for which had unfolded before him like some intricate origami bird, Ben said, “Hey, Frank, who do you think the next governor’s going to be? If you had to make a wager. Your buddy Bello really throwing his hat in?”
“Funny you should ask that,” Frank said, spearing a jumbo shrimp with his fork.
“Why’s that?”
“I was just talking to my buddy Chester McPhee, ran into him at the country club the other day. He’s spearheading Marty Bello’s campaign, and I think he’s courting me for some campaign contributions. Marty would never ask himself, too much class for that.” Frank popped the shrimp in his mouth and chewed slowly. He swallowed and pointed his fork at Ben. “Listen, I know you lean a hell of a lot farther to the left than I do, Benny, but Bello’s got a good head on his shoulders. I’m thinking we might be able to put together a fund-raiser. Get together the really big dicks in the valley. Get the ball rolling for him. He could do a lot for this state.” Frank popped another shrimp in his mouth and said, “And besides, he’s a Beta Beta Phi. Brothers need to stick together.”
Secrets. Like tiny little toads in your pocket. You can’t ever forget they’re there because they’re always moving, wriggling, trying to flee. You know that any m
oment, one of them might break free and leap from your pocket, announcing itself with a shrill croak. And the harder you try to contain them, to conceal them, the more adamant they become about their escape.
Ben had called Shadi five times since his return to Phoenix. He called from work, from pay phones, from borrowed phones at shops and restaurants. And each time when she picked up, he felt relief like a flood of warm water. She was okay, okay. He listened to her voice as she demanded, “Hello? Who is this?” and felt his eyes sting. He didn’t want to scare her, but he needed to know that she was okay.
True, Sara was preoccupied with her new endeavor, consumed even, but she was already developing that heightened sense that only mothers have, that ability to know what’s going on not only right in front of her but also behind her back.
When Ben said he planned to go to Flagstaff the following weekend, he saw her stiffen, imagined the hackles on her neck bristling.
“Remember? Hippo and Emily’s wedding is next weekend. It’s just a small ceremony, but he wants me to stand up for him.” This was actually the truth. Hippo had called and said that Emily and he had finally set a date to tie the knot, and would Ben be a witness. And Ben knew, as much as Sara probably didn’t want him in Flagstaff alone, she grew soft at the very mention of weddings. And she liked Emily. She’d actually considered going to her for a small tattoo for a while, though she’d never gone through with it.
“I forgot,” Sara said. “Shoot. And next weekend my parents are going to be at George and Angela’s in Tucson.”
“So?” Ben asked. As far as he knew, Frank didn’t want them to come along.
“So, that means I’ll be here all by myself for the weekend.”
“Oh,” he said. “What about Mel? Is she planning to come down?”