Rock with Wings

by Anne Hillerman

  Chee knew that Turner wanted to argue, so he kept talking. “That is, unless you don’t want to cooperate with this friendly investigation. In that case, you’ll probably need to go to Phoenix, or maybe it’s Salt Lake, to explain to the federal court why the Navajo Nation is wrong to view what we’ve found as an illegal burial and fine your company for desecrating sovereign land.”

  Now he had Turner’s attention.

  “But if you could remember where the scouting photos are, and I can take a look at them and see that the grave was there and had nothing to do with your operation, that would save us both a long, hot afternoon hike or a lot of complicated paperwork. And you won’t have to change your shoes.”

  “Give me fifteen, twenty minutes. Wait here, and I’ll have a girl bring them over.”

  “A girl?”

  “My assistant. Claudia. An intern.”

  Chee nodded.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  He watched the crowd. Why the eternal fascination with zombies, werewolves, vampires, ghosts, mummies, aliens from other planets, giant mutant creatures of all sorts? He’d take a good action movie any day, especially with a car chase that involved aerials and explosions.

  Melissa interrupted his daydreaming. “Hey there. Are you now the official zombie officer?”

  “Looks that way.” Chee explained his errand.

  “Want to join me for something to eat while you wait? I’m starved.”

  “Coffee would be good.”

  He followed Melissa through the food line. The aromas made him hungry, but he hoped to leave as soon as he got the pictures. He selected Guatemalan Atitlán from the fancy push-button coffee machine because Melissa recommended it. Next time, he’d try a double café noisette—whatever that might be—because the name made him smile.

  Melissa set her tray with a boiled egg and a single piece of toast on a table close to the buffet line, and Chee settled in across from her. “I’m glad I ran into you. What can you tell me about Turner and Mr. Delahart?”

  “Delahart? Don’t tell me—he’s in trouble?”

  “Not that I know of. I keep hearing his name.”

  “Delahart’s the big boss, the producer, the man who authorizes the checks. He doesn’t associate with us underlings except to give us grief about spending too much money.”

  “I thought Robinson ran things.”

  “Well, Delahart is the big boss, but Greg—uh, Mr. Robinson—does the work. He’s an associate producer, and does a good job of running interference for us with Delahart. Turner works under Robinson.”

  She was almost pretty when she smiled, Chee thought. The turquoise in her earrings was close to the color of her eyes. “I might need to talk to Delahart about the grave. Is he here?”

  She shook her head. “He’s too important to be with us peons.”

  “Seems like he’d want to see what’s going on, if he’s paying the bills.”

  “Actually, I pay the bills. He signs off on them, but I don’t think he even read the reports or looked at the statements until recently. He’d rather dabble in PR, mostly posting stuff about Rhonda’s new hairstyle or what she had for breakfast. Social media trivia for the trivially minded.” She made a dismissive cluck and shook her head. “Delahart won’t tell you anything about the grave. He probably couldn’t even tell you what state we’re in. He likes that air-conditioned room at the Inn better than the glory of Monument Valley. That makes him weird, in my book.”

  Chee took another sip of the Guatemalan coffee, savoring it. It was delicious, possibly even better than the coffee Bernie made.

  “I don’t see how you can drink coffee on such a hot day.” She jiggled the ice cubes in her cup.

  Chee asked the question Tsinnie had prompted. “How did you find that spot on Rabbit Ridge? It was perfect for the moon between those monuments.”

  “It wasn’t really me being smart. Or even good luck. Mike suggested it.”

  “Mike?”

  “Turner. I thought you’d met him.”

  “Oh, yeah. I talked to him. Did he tell you how to find it?”

  “Drew me a map. I tried to get him to go with me. He’s worried about the production schedule, and all that wind last week really slowed us down. Expenses have climbed, and some sponsorships I thought we’d land haven’t come in yet.”

  A young woman in black jeans walked to their table. “Are you Officer Chee? Mr. Turner told me to give this to you.” She handed him a flash drive and a business card. “He said to tell you if you have any more questions, please contact Mr. Delahart. That’s his card.”

  “Did he really say please?”

  The young woman looked surprised. “No, sir. That sounded better than what he said.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  He’d expected printed photographs he could thumb through quickly, not another session back in the office at a computer. He put the device in his pocket, said good-bye to Melissa, and walked out into the heat.

  It would be hours before the June warmth reached its peak, and much longer before the day cooled off. The sun made the handle on his unit’s door so hot he could barely open it. He slid gingerly across the too-warm seat, turned on the ignition and the air con. Gerald waved as he drove away.

  Back at the station, Chee plugged the portable drive into a computer and waited as a long thread of images appeared on the screen, reminding him that sometimes computers and their kin, an inescapable part of modern law enforcement, actually made his job easier. He enlarged them and sorted out a subset that showed the landscape near the gravesite, finding scouting shots similar to the view Melissa had photographed from the ridge but nothing that looked remotely like a grave. Great, he thought. The grave had not existed when the movie company came to scout, and now it did. Case almost closed.

  He called Delahart’s cell number again, with another diversion to voice mail. Then he called the Inn and asked for Delahart’s room. The person who answered spoke with what sounded to Chee like an East Coast accent. “Delahart here.”

  Chee introduced himself. “I need to talk to you about an investigation that concerns the movie production.”

  “Talk to Robinson, the honcho out there. I’ll give you the number.”

  “I’ve already spoken to him, and to Mr. Turner. They told me you were the only one who could provide the information I need. This involves publicity.”

  Chee heard a round of coughing on the other end of the phone. Then Delahart spoke. “I’m in a meeting now, and even if I could squeeze you in, I make it a point never to talk to cops. But you made me curious. What’s the problem?”

  “An illegal gravesite on Navajo Nation land.”

  Delahart coughed again. “No kidding? Whoa. Call in the Mounties.”

  Chee didn’t let his irritation show. “I’m finishing up something here, then I’m on my way to the Inn. I’ll see you around two.”

  “You think I know something about a grave? What grave? You’re nuts, man.”

  “We can talk there at the hotel, or you can meet me here at the police station. Your choice.”

  “OK, fine. We’ll talk here. Whatever. Your time to waste.” He gave Chee the room number.

  Chee did a quick background search on Delahart, finding business addresses for him in Hollywood and Las Vegas, lists of movies the man had been involved in producing, the story of two messy divorces completed with the help of high-profile celebrity lawyers, records of political contributions in California races, and a couple of lawsuits, settled out of court, in which stars claimed Delahart had spread lies about them.

  Chee still had half an hour before the meeting, so he went to Goulding’s. The maid, Mary Toledo, the woman who had found the towels and the necklace, ought to be at work now. As he drove, a feeling of relief and something else, something like happiness, settled over Jim Chee. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d expected from the photos, but whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this—a chance to wrap up the grave case and, if Bahe was will
ing, head home to Bernie earlier than anticipated.

  Mary Toledo seemed only slightly surprised to see a policeman. After introductions, Chee asked her to sit down, explaining that he was on loan to the Monument Valley department from the Shiprock substation. He told her she wasn’t in trouble, but he had a few questions for her.

  “I know your clan brother who lives out here. They say he’s starting up a business,” Mary said.

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s a good man.” She looked at the floor. “I believe you came to talk to me about what I saw in that room, but I don’t like remembering it. Something bad happened there.”

  “Mr. Haskie told me the story of what you found. I was wondering if you noticed anything else that might be important, anything besides the towels and the problem with the carpet and the chain with the turquoise pendant. Anything odd.”

  She examined her fingernails. Chee understood her reticence. “They say you do your job here well,” he said. “Did you have an opportunity to straighten things up, throw anything away, before you called Mr. Haskie? You know, try to clean up a bit so he wouldn’t see such a mess?”

  “I didn’t clean it until later, after he looked around. I didn’t feel right in there.”

  “I found out that the man who rented that room used a fake name.”

  Mary rested her back against the wall. “From the way the bedcovers were, two people slept there. I found long hair in the drain in the tub when I cleaned it, and lipstick on the plastic glass in the bathroom wastebasket. I think they were elderlies.”

  He thought about the best way to ask the next question. “Did you find anything else in that room? Maybe something little that didn’t amount to much. After the shock of seeing those towels, it would be easy to forget about that. But when time passes, sometimes other memories come back.”

  He waited.

  Mary squeezed her lips into a thin line and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I found two empty soda cans in the garbage. I hadn’t seen that kind before. Special Dr Pepper. Caffeine-free. I took those because otherwise they get thrown away. I save them until there’s enough to sell at recycling.

  “And those people gave me a tip, a five-dollar bill.”

  If whatever happened in that room was evil, Chee thought, how odd that the criminal would leave money for the maid.

  11

  When she got to the station, Bernie found two messages.

  The first was in Captain Largo’s precise handwriting: “Rotary of Farmington wants a speaker tomorrow from the Navajo Police about what we do. I booked it but now have a meeting all day in WR. Pls. handle this.” The note included the name of the person to contact and a phone number.

  WR meant Window Rock, and Bernie knew that saying no was not an option here. Public speaking turned her stomach inside out. Even the idea of it made her grumpy. At least he’d said please.

  The second, a note from Sandra, read “Call Cordova.” She handled that first.

  After some pleasantries, the FBI man got to the point. “I understand you found Miller’s phone in the back of your unit.”

  “A phone, anyway, that wasn’t in the car before he got there. And when I picked it up, his picture came up. So I’m betting it’s his.”

  “Do you have it handy?’

  “It’s locked in my desk drawer. Want me to get it?”

  “Right. You know how when a phone comes to life sometimes, a message screen shows missed calls, voice mails, new texts, stuff like that?”

  “I know.”

  “Does anything like that flash up on Miller’s phone?”

  “Before I check, tell me why you’re interested in him.”

  Cordova hesitated. “Because he’s a person we’re interested in. Your turn.”

  Bernie took out the phone and pushed a button to turn it on. “Will Miller be brought in for more questions about the bribe he offered me?”

  “The Phoenix office is working on that.”

  She took that as either a none of your business or more probably a no. “Did someone tell him I found his phone?”

  “It’s hard to reach him when his phone is in your unit. Guess we’ll have to write him a letter.” He paused a moment. “You know, if I found the phone of some guy I’d arrested in my car, and I was curious about what he’d been up to, I might look at the screen and see recent calls, texts sent and received, frequent contacts, what he has photos of.”

  “If I had done that, I would have noticed a bunch of calls to what looks like Farmington, but might be Gallup. No texts.”

  “OK. Send that info to me.”

  A pause, and then she said, “Nothing labeled Drug Supplier or Human Trafficking or Evil Companions. I could help you better if you’d give me a clue as to what you’re looking for.”

  “Are you taking care of yourself, Manuelito? You sound out of sorts. Is the heat getting to you?”

  “I’m fine. I don’t like being kept in the dark. I am really annoyed that some jerk who tried to bribe me could get off without even a slap on the hand.” And the Rotary assignment hadn’t improved her mood.

  “Hey, chill. Miller has been a bad boy in more ways than you think, and he’s on the radar. You did good to stop him. Keep at it, and you’ll be my hero. Lighten up.”

  After Cordova disconnected, she explored the phone in more detail, scrolling a few screens deep to find Miller’s contact list. A private residence in Gallup was listed under Frequent Contacts, with the name “Roberta.” A girlfriend? She found numbers in Las Vegas and Utah in the frequent category, along with another New Mexico listing, an upscale motel in Farmington.

  She looked at Miller’s photos again, wondering if she’d missed a drilling rig or a tailings pile in the background, something that would support her asking for the dirt to be analyzed. She didn’t find anything helpful, but enjoyed his shots of Ship Rock, the beautiful Tsé Bit’ a’ í—the Rock with Wings. Cordova found it odd that Miller said he liked the place, she remembered, but it made perfect sense to her.

  When she was done, she filled out the paperwork and put the phone in the evidence room.

  She called about the soil sample and learned it wasn’t ready yet. Then, with no other distractions available, she contacted the Rotary club. The woman there confirmed that the meeting Largo had assigned Bernie was tomorrow, told her how long they wanted her to speak, and where to show up. “I’m so glad he’s sending a female officer,” she said.

  Bernie got up, stretched, and went to the break room for water. Sandra buzzed her just as she was getting ready to make some notes for the talk.

  “Head out on US 64 toward the state line. Some tourist stopped at Teec Nos Pos and said he saw something that looked like a body along the side of the road, a few miles before he crossed into Arizona.”

  “A human body?”

  “The caller thought so. Near the junction of BIA 5713.”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  Bernie could tell even before she got close that the “body” wasn’t a person but a bag of garbage that must have fallen from a truck on the way to the dump. Animals had explored this treasure trove, ripping through the plastic to get to the edibles and uncovering worn-out jeans and an old plaid shirt. Maybe at seventy miles per hour a person with a good imagination could picture a dead body there.

  She pulled onto the shoulder and turned on the light bar. She put on gloves and moved the worst of the mess, obstacles that caused vehicles to swerve, off the highway. She looked for identifying information, an envelope with a name and address that might lead to the offender, but came up empty. She took care of the safety issue and radioed Sandra to tell the road crew that they had a cleanup job.

  Driving on to the trading post for a cold Coke and to see what was new on this part of the rez besides littering, Bernie recognized the person at the gas pump. She’d encountered Mrs. Benally and her son, Jackson, when Mrs. Benally’s car had been stolen from a grocery store parking lot and then returned. The woman was driving
something different now, a burgundy Ford van circa 2000.

  Bernie greeted her. “New wheels?”

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Benally squeezed off the last drops of gasoline and replaced the nozzle. She patted the side of the van. “It runs all the time. I can get in lots of groceries, even my neighbors’. We could even haul some hay. Take a look.”

  Mrs. Benally slid open the side door, and Bernie peered inside. Spacious, indeed.

  “This looks like a good vehicle.” Bernie remembered Mrs. Benally’s old sedan, a better car than the one Darleen was driving. “Someone might be interested in your other car. The green one.”

  “Oh, I gave my son that one. He will be moving in August to be closer to school.”

  “Wow. Jackson gets his own car. You must have had some lucky aces at Fire Rock or some good numbers in the lottery.”

  Mrs. Benally rummaged in her purse. Instead of a lottery ticket, she extracted a white card. She handed it to Bernie. “That’s the man who gave me the money for the van.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “We made up a contract. I told him it was OK to put some of those mirrors that make electricity on my land. I call him Mr. Sunshine.”

  Bernie looked at the name. David Oster. Living up to his word. A bright spot in her day.

  She was happily anticipating the end of her shift when Sandra called on the radio.

  “Largo wants to talk to you. Said to tell you to reach him at home.” Sandra gave Bernie the number, even though she knew it by heart.

  “Do you know what he wants?”

  “Nope. Things are quiet here.”

  Largo got to the point right away. “I’m wondering if we ought to invite the Lieutenant to join us for one of those breakfast sessions again. You were out there for a visit. What do you think?”

  The question surprised Bernie. “Well, he can’t speak yet, but he looks stronger. Seeing his old crew might help him get better. I’m sure Louisa wouldn’t mind bringing him.”

  “I want you to come with him.”

  The warmth in her unit suddenly felt stifling. She hadn’t been to the breakfast meetings, or the restaurant that hosted them, since the day the Lieutenant nearly died in her arms.