“I understand.”
He waited while Courtney started the Audi and followed as it bounced along in the moonlight toward the park exit, traveling below the speed limit. She wasn’t a bad driver.
He spoke to Alisha. “I noticed you rubbing your arm back there. Did you hurt it?”
“It’s OK.”
“What happened?”
“He—he—” And then her voice grew small and tearful. “Nothing. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Dad, Jeff Isenberg, was a fortysomething man with a military haircut who seemed suitably shocked by the turn of events. After the girls apologized, Chee said, “I need to talk to your dad about this in private.”
“Go to your room,” Isenberg said. “I’ll deal with you after the officer leaves.”
Chee reminded him about the restrictions on Courtney’s license, gave him a mini lecture on responsible gun ownership. He sensed that Isenberg wanted to argue with him, but the man simply said, “Got it.”
“One more thing. I noticed Alisha rubbing her arm. She might have gotten hurt out there. I asked her about it, but she didn’t want to tell me. She seems a lot more upset than her sister.”
“She’s the sensitive one. I’ll make sure she’s OK. Nothing means more to me than my little girls.”
Back at the substation to type up the report, Chee found a message: “Go home. Meet with me and the detective assigned to the grave case at 7 a.m.”
He would have liked to go home, but instead he drove to Paul’s place. Paul was waiting up for him.
“How’s it going? How’s my couch-surfin’ crime fighter?”
“OK. Ready for sleep.”
“Well, here’s some good news for you. We’ve got a sunset tour tomorrow.”
“Great. But what about the People Mover?”
“All good, bro. Somebody knew somebody who found everything we need.”
“That’s great.” Chee knew what was coming next.
“Could you fix it?”
He hesitated long enough that Paul added, “Not now. Maybe in the morning? You know I stink at this stuff.”
“I’ve gotta be at work at seven.”
“No problem then. We can do it after you get off. That should be around five, right?”
One thing Chee liked about Paul was his optimism.
7
Bernie awoke as the sky changed from gray to a color closer to pale pink. For a split second, she wondered where she was. The house was quiet, Mama and Darleen still slept. She rose and dressed and went outside to watch the sunrise. She felt energized this morning, grateful that her mother was still with her, that she had married a good man, that she had work she enjoyed, and that Sister was safely home. She sang her morning prayers. It would be a good day.
By the time Mama shuffled toward the kitchen, Bernie had made the oatmeal, and the familiar aroma of fresh coffee was filling the room. Mama wrapped her gnarled hands around the mug Bernie had poured for her. “When I was a girl, we had that Arbuckles coffee. It was good, too. Do they still make that coffee?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. I never heard of it.”
“It came with a yellow-and-red label that had a woman with wings on it. I loved to look at that woman.” Mama spooned some sugar into her cup. “Did Youngest Daughter get home?”
“She came in late.”
Mama looked up, waiting for more details.
“She ate and went to bed. She said she would tell us what happened this morning.”
“I will be happy to have both my daughters here today.”
“I can’t stay. I talked to Captain Largo. He needs me at the station.”
Mama shrugged. Bernie felt disappointment circle the room and settle into the pit of her stomach. It was an old conflict, balancing her enjoyment of work with her duty of—and pleasure in—spending time with Mama. And Chee made life even more fun and more complicated.
When she’d finished her coffee, Bernie stood. “I’m going to wake Sister. I have to go soon.”
She rapped on Darleen’s bedroom door. “Time to get up. We have to leave in half an hour.”
“You go on without me.” Darleen’s voice sounded muffled, as though she were lying on her stomach or talking through a pillow.
“I don’t have a car, remember? You’re driving me to Shiprock.”
“Oh, right. Save me some coffee.”
Bernie had gently helped Mama into the front passenger seat, folded the walker into the trunk, and was fiddling with the wire clasp when Darleen walked out with a mug in one hand.
“I need my keys, Sister,” she said. “I’m your chauffeur today, you lucky girl.”
Bernie unzipped the front pocket of her backpack, felt the smooth metal of the keys and the heart-shaped ornament, and put them in her sister’s hand.
“There’s some junk in the backseat,” Darleen said. “Just move it so you can fit.”
The backseat looked like a cross between a flea market and a trash bin. Bernie shoved everything—Darleen’s sweat shirt, a plastic bag filled with who-knows-what, some books, and even what could have been old class assignments from high school—to the other side of the car and sat behind Mama. She made room for her feet among the empty water bottles, beer bottles, crumpled napkins, and discarded cigarette packs that cluttered the backseat floor.
On the seat next to her was a notebook, the page open to a pencil drawing. She picked it up. It showed two people in masks and a big creature, a jaguar or something, on a leash.
“This drawing is good. I like the animal.”
“It’s supposed to be a panther. It stinks, and you just proved it. It needs to look like it could bite somebody’s head off. Not, you know, like something dumb.”
“I said animal, but I thought it was a jaguar.”
“It’s terrible. I forgot it was back there. I should have burned it.”
Rather than argue, Bernie let the comment hang. Darleen had a knack for drawing, but she was always critical of her work. Bernie readjusted her feet and thought about the empty cigarette packages and the beer bottles. She hadn’t smelled smoke on Darleen or in the car, so it must be some of her friends who were smoking. Good. She’d talk to Sister about the beer again, about drinking in the car, and drinking in general. Sister wasn’t old enough to drink legally, and Bernie had lectured her about it until she couldn’t think of what else to say.
The breeze through the open front windows blew Bernie’s hair into her face. She found a band in her pack to use for a ponytail.
“I am ready to hear your story,” Mama said to Darleen.
“It was stupid. I was stupid. I went to a party with Stoop Man and his sister. Some of their friends live in a cool place in Farmington, along the river, and they had a barbeque. It was fun, and she and I drank beer and did some shooters.”
Darleen adjusted the rearview mirror. “Then he was driving us home, and this dog wandered into the road, just came out of nowhere. He turned and missed it, but then the car swerved. We went into a ditch. Nobody got hurt or anything, but it was scary. We tried to push it free, but we couldn’t get it unstuck because of the sand. So Stoop Boy started hitching, trying to get a ride so we could get towed. His sister and I just waited. Our phones didn’t work there, of course.
“He was gone forever, so she and I decided to finish the six-pack in the backseat because there was nothing to do out there and we were, like, bored to death. Anyway, this sheriff’s deputy came by and asked what was up. We thought that sounded dumb, so we started laughing. The cop asked if we’d been drinking, and she said not enough, and we both kept laughing. Well, then he asked how old I was, and I said eighteen. Then that guy wanted me to pour my beer out and I argued with him about that, you know, that it was wasteful and he should mellow out. But he wouldn’t listen. The cop acted like he knew everything.”
“Beer. Whiskey,” Mama said. “They get people in trouble.”
“It was all a big, dumb mistake. I just didn’t think I’d go to jail.”
Bernie said, “You were way out of line.”
“I wasn’t driving. Nobody got hurt.”
So much, Bernie thought, for her sister learning a lesson. “But you shouldn’t be drinking. You’re too young, and it gets you in trouble. You know that.”
“I didn’t mean for you and Mama to worry about me.”
As Darleen approached the convenience store at the 491 intersection, Mama said, “We saw a crazy dog here yesterday. You be careful.”
“I know all about those darn dogs. That’s what got me arrested.”
“No,” Bernie said. “You got yourself arrested. And now you’re driving too fast. I’ve seen pickups come through these intersections, and they don’t stop to look for traffic. You have to pay enough attention for you and the other guy.”
“Anything else, Ms. Backseat Driver?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. That officer—”
Darleen’s phone rang, and Bernie interrupted herself. “Don’t answer it, it’s not safe—”
Darleen picked up the phone, glanced at the screen, then reached back to hand it to Bernie. “You get it.”
Bernie touched to answer. “Hello.”
She heard Chee’s familiar voice. “Well. Finally. How’s everything?”
“OK,” she said. “Sister is driving me back to our house so I can get to work. She was telling Mama and me what happened.”
“Our house? I thought you were with Mama for a few days. What did happen in Farmington? I got the overview, but not the details. Is she looking at a fine, community service?”
“I’m not sure yet.” A lot about Darleen’s abbreviated story didn’t quite make sense.
“I can see it now. Darleen at the wheel, talking away. Mama in the front seat. You in the backseat, surrounded by assorted junk.”
“You’ve got the picture.”
“And your sister’s driving is making you crazy.”
“Wish you were here?”
“Yeah. Sitting next to you, trying my best to distract you from worrying about your sister or your mother.”
Bernie laughed. “I miss you. What’s happening out there?”
Chee filled her in on Paul and Bahe’s request that he start the Monument Valley assignment early. He told her about finding Melissa, the trespassing teens, and the grave. He sounded good over the phone. Happy. Happier, she thought, to be working as a cop than he was as a cop on vacation.
“It’s great to hear your voice,” she said. “It seems like we’ve been apart forever. When will you be home?”
“Oh, a few more days. I figured you’d need to stay at Mama’s at least that long to get Darleen straightened out.”
“Actually, I’m going back to work. Remember that traffic stop, and the guy who tried to bribe me?” She told him about the problem with the camera. “The DEA is taking a look at the car today, and I want to be there for that. I’m curious about what was in there that was so important.”
“I was hoping you’d cruise on up here again once you got Mama situated.” She heard the disappointment in his voice.
“But you’re working, and you’re helping Paul, too.”
There was silence on the phone, and then he said, “I still wish you were here.”
After he hung up, she tried not to feel sorry for herself because she’d come in second to his cousin and a movie about zombies. Darleen and Mama were talking about school, but as soon as they finished, Bernie planned to redirect the conversation back to the arrest.
“They say that Diné College has good teachers,” Mama was saying. “And you know that girl from your class who went to San Juan College. Then some people like that UNM in Gallup.”
“After what just happened, I want to go somewhere away from here, Mama. Someplace where I wouldn’t run into people I know who like to party. Remember, the IA?”
Bernie chimed in. “Institute of American Indian Arts.” A good, tough school in Santa Fe, but too far from home for her little sister.
Darleen asked, “How come you know about it?”
“Our cousin’s wife’s nephew went there. Peewee.”
Darleen laughed. “That guy!”
“Some famous artists taught there—Fritz Scholder, Charles Loloma, Allan Houser.”
Darleen turned on the signal to pass. “I’ll find out what I need to do to get in.”
Right, Bernie thought. “I bet you have to have your GED first.”
Darleen pulled up in front of Bernie’s Shiprock trailer and parked. She left the motor running.
“You two want to come in?”
“No. I need to get over to the library to use the Internet for the IA. OK with you, Mama?”
Mama nodded. “You and Sister talk about that Eye school some more.”
Bernie walked to Darleen’s open window. “Call me tonight. Be careful driving home, and no drinking.”
“Anything else?”
“Watch out for those dogs.”
“Hey, thanks for buying gas.”
“Your tires were low, and I put in some air. Keep an eye on that.”
Bernie spoke to Mama. “Remember to drink plenty of water on these hot days.”
“That’s right,” Darleen said. “You drink more, and I’ll drink less.”
Bernie stood in the drive watching as Darleen’s car disappeared. Then she walked past the loom and climbed the steps into the trailer. The house, stuffy and lonely, added to her out-of-sorts feeling. A phone message from Louisa contributed to her funk.
“Can you call me when you get a minute? Or stop by anytime, you two. It always brightens Joe’s day to have you guys over.” Joe, of course, was the man she called the Lieutenant, the legendary Leaphorn, her mentor and Chee’s former boss. Recovery from the damage a crazed woman had done with a bullet to his brain was coming slowly.
She hadn’t been to see Leaphorn or Louisa, his housemate and more, in over a week. Life moved too fast. She’d be in touch after she learned what schedule Largo had planned for her. The only certain thing about police work, Bernie thought, was that you never knew what might come next. Largo mentioned that the techies had removed the questionable camera from her unit, and the DEA, or whoever, would check to see if perhaps someone could salvage the recording and the incriminating conversation it should contain.
She showered, put on her uniform, and headed to the office, hoping to take another look at the boxes of dirt before the DEA folk arrived. Coming in the station’s back door as she always did, she hadn’t even sat down when Sandra, the receptionist, buzzed her.
“There’s a gentleman here who needs to file an accident report.”
“I’ll be right out.”
She didn’t see many men wearing ties in Shiprock. A good bolo, maybe, but seldom an official necktie, even if the guy was due in court or running for Tribal Council. The light-skinned gentleman in the business suit, his hair cut close to the scalp, was the sort Bernie only encountered when she’d been arm-twisted into representing the department at a meeting someplace fancy.
“I’m Officer Manuelito,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to report some damage on my car. I was at that little restaurant down the highway from here, and somebody backed into me and then drove off. Not a lot of damage, but any little thing costs a fortune to fix.” His straight white teeth gleamed when he smiled at her. “So I need to file an accident report for my insurance.”
“I can help you with that.” She knew the café. It sat right off the main road north to Cortez and south to Gallup. It was Shiprock’s most popular place for travelers, both Navajos and bilagaana, and for locals too. The tight parking spots and steady traffic contributed to frequent accidents.
She called up the necessary file on her computer and typed in the date, learning that he drove a black Porsche Cayenne. He showed her a photo of the damage.
“I’ve never seen this kind of SUV. It looks like somebody crunched into your front bumper with a trailer hitch.”
“That’s what I
thought. Whoever did it was long gone when I came out, and I didn’t hear a thing. Made an interesting dent. The car’s a hybrid, runs on battery power as well as gasoline. Helps save the planet, at least until we can buy solar cars.”
Bernie nodded, glad that the accident didn’t involve injuries or other complications. She’d finish this quickly and examine the dirt. “Your name, sir?”
“David Oster.”
“Address?”
He gave her an address in San Francisco.
“San Francisco? You’re a long way from home.”
“That’s right. I’m missing the fog but enjoying the sun.”
“Welcome to Navajoland. I’m sorry about your car. What brings you out this way?”
“The sun, actually. I’m with Primal Solar.”
“Primal Solar?” The name stirred a memory in the back of Bernie’s brain. “I’ve heard of that.”
“We’re the company responsible for some of those photovoltaic panels that got ripped in half by the wind or crushed by the snow. I’m here to make good on those mistakes and to find a site for our next solar farm.”
“Solar farm?” As far as she knew, every farm used the sun to make things grow.
“That’s engineer talk for an array of panels installed together to create a lot of energy, enough for the reservation and to ship to California. Solar power is the way of the future. Clean, renewable, nonpolluting. I can’t imagine a better project to spend time on.”
Some twenty thousand families lived on the reservation without power, as though they were in a third-world country. It was ironic, Bernie thought, since the Navajo Nation was home to some of America’s biggest reserves of coal and uranium, as well as abundant sun and wind for alternative energy. Bernie knew people who had tried solar power. At first they had been happy with their electricity for lights and refrigerators, then sad when the panels stopped working.
Oster continued explaining. “We’ll do some training and leave a pool of support personnel homeowners can call if they have problems down the line. We’re hiring.” He handed her a business card. “If you hear of people who could use a job, ask them to call or go to the website.”
“Do you have an office in Shiprock?”
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