Archie said quietly, “Step into view please. I like to see who I’m talking to.”
The answering voice was calm and obviously female. “I was told you were a cautious man…and a dangerous one, too.”
Archie mentally shifted gears, relaxing slightly. Not that a woman couldn’t be treacherous, he mused, but it did reduce the odds. When she moved into view, he instantly recognized her as the person he’d seen earlier having dinner with Lucy Tallwoman.
“Percy sent you,” was his instant assessment.
“Yes…he did.”
Archie unlatched the security chain and with an amused twist of his head, ushered her inside. He moved across the room to lift the phone receiver…then put it back down and watched as the light went out.
She smiled. “I thought perhaps you hadn’t seen the message light.”
Without returning the woman’s smile he replied, “I was resting.”
“Well then, I’m sorry to interrupt. Unfortunately I was told you and I need to talk…tonight. Percy said it would be all right.”
At his direction, Carla moved past him and settled herself in a chair at the far side of the table where she boldly looked him over and quickly made a mental determination, This is a person who makes certain he is in control at all times. She would have expected nothing less from a man she’d been told never got excited or lost focus.
She glanced around the room, “Percy was right again,” She said. “You know who I am.”
“I do now. You’re Carla …Percy’s spoken of you enough over the years. There’s a picture of you as a young girl on a shelf above his desk.” Archie paused, and downing the last of his drink, murmured apologetically, “I didn’t recognize you this afternoon…because of the age difference from then to now, I suppose. I had the impression the Factor thinks of you almost as the child he never had.” Archie rose and directed her attention toward the little refrigerator in the corner. “Can I get you a drink? I think I’m going to have another.”
She waved the suggestion away and went on. “I was fortunate enough to be one of the few recipients of a Vermeer Foundation grant, first to study law…and later art. It was a generous and ongoing endowment.” She looked him in the eye. “I worked hard to justify it.” Carla turned away from the shrouded window as though she’d seen something unpleasant beyond the drapes. “My own father was a distant relative of Percy’s. The Factor never really cared for him though he did somehow feel responsible for my mother and me…a sentiment that continued after her death.”
Archie pursed his lips and shook his head. “I didn’t know that…but it explains a lot. Is Percy still in touch with him…your father, I mean?”
“No, my father’s dead, and a long time ago.”
“Ah, well I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You needn’t be. He wasn’t a particularly good person. He wound up taking his own life when I was in high school. I seldom think of him. My mother later remarried, one of my father’s distant cousins oddly enough, and my new stepfather became the highpoint of both our lives.”
“And so, it’s only now you’ve been called upon to provide a service? He must think me in serious need of help?”
“He was disappointed in how the Clifford Johnson affair played out. He said it wasn’t like you to let things get out of hand.”
Archie grimaced. “Everyone was disappointed in the end. Even those responsible expressed considerable regret. That liability has, however, been neutralized as far as possible.”
Carla raised her eyebrows and touched the tip of her tongue to her lip. “So, it was you…”
Archie shrugged and brought the conversation back to her. “Percy holds you in the highest regard. He mentioned you were working with the FBI…art recovery I believe. He was quite proud of that. He said you might make a valuable member of our team one day, should that be your choice.”
“I owe Percy Vermeer a great deal.” Carla paused, and then for a moment turned pensive. “Still, I consider whatever might pass between you and I to be confidential…you needn’t worry on that account.”
“Oh, I’m not worried, Carla, I’m well aware where your loyalties lie—either of us speaking out of turn could have consequences.” Archie narrowed an eye. “Now then, what does Percy believe you can help me with?”
“Well, it seems there are recent developments… Information you might not be aware of.”
Archie smiled. “Well, I’m not surprised. I have been rather ‘out of pocket’, as they say out here.”
She nodded. “Exactly, and we understand that. The crux of the matter is Percy has reason to believe there is another faction, working behind the scenes, to consolidate control over certain segments of the Native art market. Might even be a global enterprise, he thinks. He’s certain they are involved somehow with Raul Ortiz, and possibly responsible for several recent attempts to coerce collectors, galleries and even auction houses, to give them preferential consideration. Some of these overtures were quite aggressive—a few involving violence of one sort or another.” Carla hesitated before going on. “This appears to be a well-orchestrated consortium, with long ties to foreign financial interests.”
Archie sighed beneath a furrowed brow. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, but Percy does sometimes jump to conclusions. Does he have any idea who they are?”
“Only rumor—little pieces of information, all hard won I might add—but from sources he considers reliable. He’s become convinced their plan has already been put into motion, a plan that might leave him out of the picture entirely.” Carla hesitated. “Percy believes, at this juncture, these people plan to compromise several prominent Native artists, insure their exclusivity, so to speak.”
“Compromise? As in, eliminate?”
“He’s convinced they might go that far.”
“And he thinks Lucy Tallwoman might be one of the people in harm’s way?” Archie pressed the issue, his curiosity aroused.
Carla directed a cool glance his way. “He made that quite clear in our last discussion.”
“Well that puts a different perspective on things doesn’t it?” From his brief time with Big Ray Danson, and then Raul Ortiz, he’d come to believe something quite different. Both men, even under pain of death, had vehemently denied any intention of deadly force. It was, of course, possible Raul was unaware of these other client’s goals, and only meant to retain some sort of relationship with the trader to facilitate his own hidden agenda. Archie knew from experience that this other client might well have a hidden agenda. It was all beginning to make sense…in a twisted sort of way.
“Percy has become quite concerned for the safety of Lucy Tallwoman and her family.” Carla herself sounded worried as she went on, “He learned only yesterday that these interlopers, as he refers to them, have already amassed a considerable collection and from very well-known artisans, too. Much of it, I might add, through the auspices of Raul Ortiz.”
“Go on… I’m slowly getting your drift, as Raul, himself, was fond of saying.”
Carla put her hands flat on the table and leaned forward for emphasis. “Should these artists no longer be producing new pieces—the desirability of their work would increase dramatically. At least that’s what Percy thinks is behind it.”
“So, Percy’s saying he’s certain this faction would go so far as to do away with people out here?” Archie wanted to be very clear on the man’s thinking. He had never been opposed to killing should there be good reason for it…but then, it wasn’t the sort of thing one could call back either. In his view such an action required certainty of purpose.
“It’s not unheard of, Archie. Even at the Bureau there are those who tend to consider it a possibility…though granted a remote one, at least to my mind. Still, it’s crossed their minds, and is certainly not inconceivable.”
Archie scratched his head with one finger and unconsciously rearranged the lock of hair in front. He wasn’t a vain man but did concede some aspects of his appearance might be key to h
is image, and image could be everything in his line of work. As quick as this thought occurred to him he put it aside. It made him uncomfortable.
“What, does Percy propose I do about these people?”
“We…he said we… could decide—but left me with the impression you’d know what to do.”
Archie heaved a sigh and took a prolonged sip of his second drink. “I see…well, I’ll look into it. Perhaps, should you hear anything from your sources at the Bureau, you could give me a heads up…if it’s not too much trouble.”
Carla nodded in such a way he felt she was not particularly enthused with the suggestion—but there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that she would let him know.
17
Serendipity
Charlie Yazzie studied his burgeoning in-basket with a guilty eye and almost decided to forego lunch. It had been a wilder weekend than usual on the Dinétah making for even more arrests and complaints than generally was the case. This Monday morning might prove to be the heaviest day of the month. The responsible thing to do would be to stay with it; try to make a dent in the still growing stack of reports.
Only two hours later, however, the Investigator lifted his head to eye the clock and have second thoughts about lunch. Hunger was punishing him. The old people had a saying: “Denying hunger is one of life’s finest tortures.” This is how Charlie interpreted it. When said in old Navajo, of course, it was not nearly so poetic. Hunger was torturing him all right. It was gnawing at him like a hungry dog. Watching the minute hand on the clock inch its way toward noon, it occurred to the Investigator he might, if he hurried, slip in before the lunch crowd over at the Diné Bikeya. The posting on the office bulletin board that morning was lurking at the back of his mind; the special today was white beans and ham-hocks…with cornbread. It was a dish his grandmother had been partial to. He hadn’t cared for it so much as a child, but of late, found his mind turning to it occasionally. It had been a long time.
He was just taking his coat down off the hook when the intercom buzzed. He was thinking he hadn’t really wanted a line of coat hooks in his office but his wife thought coats hanging on the backs of chairs looked unprofessional. As the former office manager, Sue had developed certain personal predilections in office décor. It was his opinion the coat hooks made the place look like a barbershop.
The buzzer became more persistent, and Charlie looked through the glass to see the receptionist relentlessly poking the call button. He turned back to his own machine and held down the answer key, saying in as nice a way as possible, “What is it Arlene? I was just leaving for lunch…” He could see the woman squinting back at him through thick horn-rimmed glasses. Those are new he thought and judged them less attractive than her previous ones.
“Uh… Sir… maybe you could just stop by the desk on the way out? It’ll only take a second, Mr. Yazzie. It’s not something I want to announce for everyone in the office to hear.” This caused everyone in the office to turn an ear that way. Arlene was one of the better receptionists they’d had of late and, by all accounts, the most discreet. He nodded at her through the glass, got his coat, and was at her desk before she realized he was no longer in his office. She took her finger off the button and peered up at him as though the new eyewear had deceived her. Leaning across her desk she assumed an air of confidentiality, and half-whispered, “My mom called and wondered if she might have a word with you after lunch? She’ll be through work over at the school cafeteria about one-thirty she said. She could easily stop by then.”
The Investigator stared at her a moment and then remembering who her mom was, sighed and offered a wry smile. “This isn’t about that parking ticket Frances got last week is it?” He was whispering, too, by now, “I thought Officer Red Clay already took care of that?”
“Well maybe…she hasn’t really heard much on it yet. But she didn’t pay the fine either—like Billy told her not to.” Arlene shrugged. “She’s not in jail yet, so she figures that’s a sign he’s working on it.”
“I’m sure she’s in good hands with Billy.” Charlie looked toward the door… “So what is it your mother wants to talk about, Arlene?”
“Well, sir, she wouldn’t say what it was exactly. She just wants to tell you about something that happened the day they found Clifford Johnson’s body. She says she don’t want anyone putting a spell on her for spreading rumors, but thinks she ought to let you know. I guess she’s thinking it’s payback for helping her get out of that parking ticket Hastiin Sosi gave her.”
Charlie rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. “Fine, you tell her to drop by after lunch then. But mention I’m busy today, Arlene, I doubt I’ll have much time to talk.”
Arlene smiled and followed him to the door, raising her voice in parting. “She’s not a long talker, Mr. Yazzie, she’ll be quick about it. You know she appreciates you helping her fix that ticket.”
Charlie looked around to see if anyone was listening. Several obviously were. Shaking his head and frowning he hissed, “Don’t say fix the ticket, Arlene, that’s not what this was about.”
The woman put a finger to her lips and made a downward motion with the other hand, whispering, “Mums the word, Sir,” and nodded him out the door.
A cold front had moved in during the pre-dawn hours. The sky, still brilliantly blue, carried the usual harbingers of an early Fall, air so clear and crisp he could see the trickle of steam rising from the power plant on the San Juan. The river, still low despite recent rains. Almost time to shut down the irrigation headers, he thought. At the truck he stood a moment, feeling something was amiss, then remembered the sunglasses on top of his head and settled them across his nose. Raising his head to a freshening breeze he took a deep breath and noticed a whiff of coal in the wood smoke from the government housing along the highway. He breathed out and felt a twinge inside—his grandfather died on a Fall day just like this one. He recalled the old man smiling as they moved him out to the brush arbor. He said it was time; he wanted to see the sky, but they knew he wanted his chindi to be able to fly free and not hang around to cause people trouble or force the hogan to be abandoned.
At the Diné Bikeyah, parking spaces near the door were already beginning to fill. Seeing an oilfield truck backing out Charlie positioned himself to slide into the spot, lifting a finger to thank the driver. The burly white man at the wheel glanced his way in the mirror, rubbed the three-day stubble on his chin, and drove off.
The booth he liked best was open and he made a beeline for it. The call from a corner table caught him midstride and he looked over to see Fred Smith and Carla Meyor in the process of ordering. They waved him over and he squeezed by the waitress to take a chair. Everyone smiled at everyone else and it took no more than a minute or two to complete ordering. Charlie was the only one of the three interested in the special.
“So, how’s your day going, Counselor?” Fred gathered the menus, then passed them off to the waitress with a quick smile.
“Busy, busy.” Charlie replied, “More than a typical Monday morning, I guess.” He was watching Carla from the corner of his eye. She sampled her coffee before raising an eyebrow in greeting. He nodded to the woman and turned back to Fred. “What brings the Bureau out here this morning…couldn’t find a decent restaurant in Farmington?”
Carla smiled at this, but Fred didn’t. He unrolled his silverware and inspected each piece in turn before answering. “We’ve been over at the trading post, going over the forensic report, at the scene. We’ll probably be there most of the afternoon—checking out a few concerns the accountant had as well. He’s just winding up his end.” Fred shrugged and went on. “Whoever pulled off the Johnson murder was no amateur. The trader was not the victim of some passing opportunist, that’s for sure. The thing was planned and carried out by someone who knew exactly what he was about.” He held up a finger. “But even the best occasionally leaves something behind.” He gave a smile of satisfaction. “Whoever it was apparently parked behind the trading post, o
n the far side of Johnson’s pickup. You’ll recall it rained the day before; the ground back there was still a little muddy. Our guy was able to get a good impression of the tire tracks. It was a black Lincoln Town Car. Albuquerque plates.”
“Wow! They could tell all that from the tire tracks? I’m impressed…” Charlie was grinning.
Carla chuckled silently and sipped again at her coffee.
Fred looked past the Investigator and couldn’t help smiling himself. “No, as it turns out, our people down there in Albuquerque already have the car impounded in a double murder investigation. The mud in the fender wells was from up here, right here at the trading post, in fact. The driver, who was found dead in the car, had ties to a well-known Albuquerque crime family. Whether or not it was the driver who did the Johnson murder we’ve yet to determine; the Lincoln apparently got passed around a good bit.”
Fred let this sink in. “We’ve had our eye on the Ortiz bunch for some time—international dealers in Native American art—also known to provide ‘professional quality’ people with special talents…for a price, of course.”
The thought occurred to Charlie that Lucy Tallwoman might be unintentionally caught up in something more far more dangerous than she had been made aware of.
Carla, watching Charlie, assumed he might still be a little puzzled, and interjected, “The forensic person, already working on the Lincoln, happened to be the one who processed the tire molds from up here. The car was wearing very expensive tires. The tech says he doesn’t see many of that brand so it didn’t take him long to put it together. Serendipity, I guess.”
Charlie never ceased to be amazed at the science-rich proficiency of the FBI labs. It was no wonder they were considered the best in the world. He nodded to both agents. “Now I am impressed.” Still he couldn’t help thinking to himself all they lack is a tracker like Harley Ponyboy.
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