“I loved those earrings, but I took them back to the shop. I decided they were beyond my budget. Delahart had Robinson announce his budget cutbacks, and I figured I shouldn’t have been so extravagant.”
“BJ told me that parking-lot Gerald lost his job.”
Melissa sighed. “We were expecting more underwriting, but it didn’t come through. I feel bad about Gerald, and there’s more layoffs to come.”
Chee left the air-conditioned tent for the late-afternoon heat. He’d never minded summer, even at its peak. What was the point of calling anything in nature “bad”? Weather was weather, hot was hot, cold was cold. He didn’t see the need to attach judgment.
While he still had phone service, he called his cousin on the off chance that Paul was somewhere within range of a cell tower and had his phone with him.
Paul answered. He had just finished filling his water tanks and was heading for home.
“I’m about done, too, ready to get back to your place,” Chee said. “I thought I’d see if you had any idea what was wrong with the People Mover.”
“You heard about that?” Paul sounded remarkably upbeat for a man who had looked business disaster in the face earlier that day. “Yeah, I guess I’m famous all over the valley now.”
Chee waited for Paul to bring up his botched repair job, or to ask him to work on the People Mover. He did neither.
“I’ve been thinking some more about this food deal. You know, what to feed the customers. Something easy but good. I’m doing the research, man. You can be my test subject. You know, like a crash test dummy?” Paul chuckled.
Chee didn’t appreciate the comparison. “What about the vehicle?”
“Don’t worry, bro. It’s under control.”
On his way through the valley, Chee cruised past the former campsite of the German tourists. They had done a fine job of cleaning up. Except for tire tracks, the place looked as though no one had been there. He wondered if the movie people would do as good a job when they left with the burned bones with which they had desecrated Navajoland.
15
The next day the memory of the burned sedan, the stench of rubber and plastic, still bothered Bernie. She pictured the scene again. She wondered if it had to do with gangs, some sort of initiation. Another thing to mention to the Lieutenant. Talking to him always helped.
She steered her mind to happier thoughts. The Lieutenant using the computer. Wonderful news. Another step in his recovery.
As she drove into Window Rock, her cell phone vibrated. She was surprised to see that the caller was Officer Wheeler, a colleague stationed there. She put him on speaker.
“Hey, Manuelito. So the Captain has you tracking down a burned car?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been investigating incidents like that out here. I can give you some info, share my files. I heard you were coming out this way to see the Lieutenant. Meet me at the Navajo Inn, and I’ll pass all this off to you. I want to talk to you for a minute about that guy Miller, too. I’m almost at the parking lot now.”
“OK, thanks, but—” And before she could suggest an alternative place to meet, he hung up.
She would have suggested that they get together at the chain restaurant down the street or the Chinese place in the little mall. She had always enjoyed the Navajo Inn, but now the thought of going there felt like a cold wind on her neck.
She forced herself to park in the open spot by the door, the same place where the Lieutenant had parked his truck the day he was shot. Even looking at the building made her edgy. She climbed out of her Toyota, straightened up, took a breath. She knew she had to do this sometime, and now was as good a time as any. She walked through the big doors and into the dining room.
Wheeler sat at a booth by the back windows, looking at the oasis of shade and water the restaurant and adjoining hotel had created. Bernie slipped in across from him.
Bernie’s favorite waitress, Nellie Roanhorse, handled their section. Nellie came by for their orders and smiled at Bernie. “Good to see you again. I’ve missed you here. How’s your friend, the one who got shot?”
Surprisingly, it was a relief to talk about him. “He’s getting stronger, doing better. He’s able to use the computer now, working a little.”
“You want some fries today?”
“No, just a Coke.”
Nellie brought the Coke, and an iced tea for Wheeler. Bernie sipped, focusing on each sweet, cold swallow, forcing herself to drink slowly when she wanted to gulp it down and order six refills. Cokes weren’t the best thing for her, she knew. She usually limited herself to one a day. Nellie understood her weakness, however, and took her glass for a refill while she and Wheeler talked.
Bernie opened the discussion. “You mentioned that you’d learned something about Miller. I’m curious about that man. Do you know why the feds are so interested?”
Wheeler put down his glass. “When I heard the story about you and the dirt, I remembered him from a DWI road block this spring. He was suspicious then, too.”
Bernie wondered why, of the hundreds of motorists Wheeler had dealt with, Miller stood out. She waited for the story to unfold.
“I talked to him like you do to everybody, to see if I smelled beer or something. The man wasn’t drinking, and he was driving OK, but he sure was nervous. He’s telling me about how he moved from Las Vegas. I asked him about the casinos in Vegas, which ones have the best odds, and he clammed up, like I’d said something dirty to him. I checked his license, registration. All good, same as you found. When I told him he could be on his way, he asked me if I’d ever heard of something called the Red Rock Highway and how to get there. I told him yes and explained where it was.”
Bernie knew the Red Rock Highway—BIA Route 13, the scenic route over the Chuskas, which wound through forests and red cliffs. Off this route, someone had burned Miller’s car. “Did you ask him why he wanted to know?”
“He said he had some business out that way. Funny, huh? There’s not much there.”
“He told me he was a contractor. Is that what he said to you?”
Wheeler rubbed a thumb against his jaw. “I remember he mentioned that he did some landscaping. That might be what he planned for the dirt you found, a mini project on someone’s patio.”
“Do you know why the feds are interested in him?”
“Maybe they’re bored or something.”
She picked up the car fire folder. “I appreciate this. I’ll show it to the Lieutenant. Maybe he’ll have some insights.”
“Tell him hey for me. Let me know if any of these cases are related to yours, maybe gangster activity spreading out that way. You’ve made me curious.”
When Nellie came closer, Bernie asked for the bill.
“My treat today. You come back and bring the one who got shot.”
Louisa opened the door before Bernie could knock, and told her the Lieutenant was taking a nap. “He usually sleeps about half an hour, so he ought to be awake soon.”
In the kitchen, Louisa asked about Mama and Darleen. Bernie answered briefly, not going into detail. The cat came in, lapped some water from its bowl on the kitchen floor, and pranced away again.
“What’s happening with your work?” Bernie asked. They had talked before about Louisa’s research for a book comparing the origin stories of southwestern tribes, a project she’d been involved with for years. Louisa also worked as a consultant in American studies with her colleagues at Northern Arizona University.
“I haven’t been doing any consulting lately. I miss interviewing for the book, but it will be there when the time comes.”
“Captain Largo asked me to invite you and the Lieutenant to join him and some of the top brass for breakfast at the Navajo Inn. It’s an open invitation. Whenever he’s up for it. I thought it might be better to ask you about the idea first.”
Louisa ran her hand through her cropped gray hair. “I’ll talk to Joe about that. Give him time to consider it. Would you be t
here, too?”
“Largo wants me to, yes. I stopped at the restaurant today to meet with another officer. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I did OK.”
“You’ve got a lot on your shoulders, between your mother and sister and the job and that handsome guy you’re married to. So, how is your mother’s health these days? How’s Darleen doing? And how are you holding up with Chee at Monument Valley?”
Bernie had noticed that white people often asked more than one question at the same time. She liked it; it meant she could answer whatever question she wanted.
“I’m fine. Missing my husband. How are you feeling?” She knew Louisa had some health issues, things she rarely talked about.
“I’m all right.”
Bernie heard a shuffle in the hallway and turned. Leaphorn walked slowly, using his cane, coming to join them. She remembered seeing him in the hospital, pale and near death, and how Louisa had stayed with him in that tiny room, cheered him up, brought him home. “The Lieutenant looks better every time I see him. Now he’s getting around without using the walker. Wonderful!”
“It is wonderful. You know, only ten percent of people who are shot in the head survive.” Louisa’s voice quavered. “I thank my lucky stars that Joe beat the odds. And that he’s recovering. I celebrate his being alive every day.”
“Remember that congresswoman from Arizona, the woman who was shot? She went skydiving to celebrate the third anniversary of her survival.”
Louisa laughed. “Can you imagine Joe jumping out of a plane?”
Bernie turned toward Leaphorn as he entered the kitchen. “Yá’át’ééh.”
He nodded to her. He looked sleepy, she thought.
Louisa pulled out a chair so Leaphorn could lower himself more easily, but didn’t offer to help him beyond that. “We’re going to Gallup for Joe’s physical therapy tomorrow. It was good that you could come today.” She rose. “Can I bring you something to drink?”
“No, thanks. I just had a Coke.” Bernie looked at the Lieutenant. “Do you like that therapy?”
He made a sound and then tapped twice, the signal for no. Then again once, for yes.
Bernie laughed. “I guess that means you’re not sure.”
“They make him work, and that’s exhausting. But he’s getting better because of it. The staff helps him with balance, standing, walking.”
Bernie thought about how hard it would be to have to relearn all of that. “Do they help you with talking?”
The Lieutenant made another sound, but Bernie couldn’t understand it. Louisa said, “That’s the speech therapist’s job.”
“What a lot of appointments. No wonder you haven’t had any time for your research.”
“This is my work now. My work and my joy. Whatever I can do to help Joe.”
Louisa looked exhausted, Bernie realized. What if Chee had been the shooter’s victim? Would Bernie be as open-hearted? What if she’d been shot? How would she feel about Chee putting his job on hold to help her regain some of what the bullet took away? She thought of people she knew who had come back from Iraq or Afghanistan with injuries, and how they and their families struggled. People did what they had to do, and she admired those like Louisa who kept their balance in a whirlwind of change.
Leaphorn tapped on the table, using all his fingers and both thumbs.
“Joe, the computer is in your office.” Louisa turned to Bernie. “I know you’ve got police business to discuss with him. You’ll be more comfortable in there, and you can talk Navajo without having to translate for me.”
The Lieutenant pushed himself to standing, using the table for leverage. He reached for his cane and, step by slow step, began to move toward his office. Bernie followed. With some effort—and a look that yelled leave-me-alone when she tried to help—the Lieutenant settled into his favorite reading chair. The cat tagged along, too. Leaphorn motioned for Bernie to put the computer on his lap.
“Do you remember I mentioned to you that I’d stopped that man with the dirt in his trunk?” Bernie asked in Diné Bizaad, the language where her best thinking lived.
Leaphorn tapped once: yes.
Bernie told him about Miller’s car being burned near Ship Rock.
Leaphorn typed in Navajo: Who?
“That’s what I want to know. Who did it? Wheeler has been investigating stuff like this here in Window Rock. Those cars were burned as revenge or gang initiations. He gave me a folder about all that. Oh, and he said to tell you hello.” Bernie sat down in the desk chair and rolled it next to the Lieutenant. She opened the folder and showed him the photos, but he didn’t seem interested in them or in the printouts Wheeler had included.
“So, who could have burned the car? Hosteen Tso, the old one who lives out there and saw the fire, thinks it was a skinwalker. Wheeler told me the gang activity he’s tracking might be spreading. Mr. Tso has a grandson who sounded kind of rough on the phone. Maybe he did it. That might take us back to the gang angle.”
Leaphorn moved his right hand over the keyboard, picking out each letter: why? Bernie wondered if the injury had affected his hand-eye coordination or his ability to remember where the letters were. Maybe he had always been a hunt-and-peck typist.
“Why? Good question.”
She felt her cell phone vibrate and looked at it. Captain Largo was on the line.
“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s the boss.”
“Manuelito,” Largo said, “I just got a call from Agent Cordova I thought you’d be interested in.”
“Yes, sir?”
“He told me Miller reported that his car was stolen from outside a bar in Farmington the night before it burned.”
“Interesting.”
“The report is on your desk. You’ll probably want to talk to the deputy who interviewed him about it.”
“Thanks. What do you think?”
The line was silent for a moment. Then Largo chuckled. “It could have happened. It has the same probability as the Navajo Rangers capturing Bigfoot. Are you with Lieutenant Leaphorn now?”
“Yes, sir. He’s sitting right across from me.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“You know he—”
“I know.”
She handed the phone to the Lieutenant. He put it to his ear and, after a moment, turned away from her. When he turned back, his eyes were glistening. He handed her the phone; Largo had disconnected.
She told Leaphorn about the stolen car report and Largo’s skepticism. “That adds a new wrinkle. If it was some random guys who decided to take it, why bother to steal something and not sell it? Or keep it?”
Leaphorn kept his hands still.
“What if whoever took it had been tracking Miller from Flagstaff or Albuquerque because he wanted whatever contraband the guy had? Maybe Miller had reneged on a deal, and this guy thought he was smarter than the feds, or he didn’t realize the feds had already searched the car. When he couldn’t get what he wanted, he got angry and torched the car.”
Leaphorn tapped twice and typed: Not there.
“You mean I’m not there yet with the answer? Or the drugs weren’t out there in the car?”
Why burned there?
Bernie thought for a while. “What about this? Imagine some lowlifes have Miller on their watch list because of the drugs. They carjack him and force him to drive out there to get him to tell them where the drugs are, or the weapons or explosives or whatever he’s involved in. They threaten to hurt him if he doesn’t talk. He tells them where to look, and then they burn the car to scare him. He escapes and makes up the stolen car story because he’s embarrassed to tell the truth. And so his insurance company will pay.”
Leaphorn typed a Navajo word that meant something like “complicated.”
Bernie smiled. “You always did encourage us to go for the obvious solution first. Now all I have to do is think it up. But, if not, at least I have the complex one.”
Leaphorn looked better than when she’d arrived. He was s
itting straighter now as he typed again.
Why feds involved?
“That’s my question too, but no one will tell me. I don’t know enough about Miller to figure it out but I could tell by the way he reacted when I stopped him that he’s not squeaky clean. I’m guessing it’s white-collar crime—not sex trafficking or terrorism. Maybe he’s involved in a mortgage scam or Internet fraud.”
Leaphorn didn’t respond. Was he getting tired, or processing the information? The cat stretched out on his lap.
Another idea came to her. “Largo doubts the stolen car story. Maybe Miller drove it out there himself and burned it to destroy whatever evidence the feds and I missed, and then claimed it was stolen. Since the original traffic stop was part of a drug interdiction, I expected the DEA to be involved, but instead I talked to an agent named Jerry Cordova. He asked some questions, but wouldn’t tell me why.”
Leaphorn started typing: What ?s.
“What Miller had been doing at that meeting in Albuquerque, where he said he’d been, whether I’d seen anything else suspicious in the car besides the dirt. I told him I didn’t know, and no. Later, after I found Miller’s phone, he asked me where he’d been calling. If the guy really worked in Flagstaff, I thought it was interesting that he didn’t have many Flagstaff numbers in his phone. I mean, it’s summer. The time for building out there in the mountains before the ground freezes again.”
dirt?
“Cordova didn’t ask me about the dirt. But I keep coming back to it.”
Who is M?
The cat leaped to the floor by Leaphorn’s feet and then onto the windowsill, where it sat, watching an assembly of hummingbirds at the feeder. They looked like airborne jewels, iridescent green-blue, their wings moving so fast Bernie could only see a blur. The cat’s tail twitched.
“I don’t know, and I can’t seem to find out, either. I feel like my logic is going in circles, using lots of energy to stay in one place, like those little birds.” She looked to Leaphorn for a response and discovered that he had closed his eyes.
“I’m tiring you out with so much talking.”
Rock with Wings Page 19