Grave Consequences (23 page)

Al looked around as Charlie parked in a slot about fifty feet from the entrance to the caf
é
. “No other cars around, but we're five minutes early,” Al said, checking his watch, then yawning loudly. “I hate working graveyard shifts. Must be the traditional Navajo in me.”

“Night can be your friend. I spent most of my service time on night operations. Of course we had eyes in the dark. Technology made us harder to locate and take out,” Charlie reminded.

“What's it like, going from firefights to running a business?”

Charlie shook his head. “Haven't seen much difference lately.”

“You've got a point,” Al replied, then checked the Dodge's side mirror. “Here we go. White Cadillac crossing the highway and coming in this direction. It's either a high roller coming over for gas, or Nolan Bitsillie.”

The car drove into the lot, turned around, and backed into a parking space, leaving an open slot between them. The driver, wearing a black jacket with the casino logo, looked at them carefully for a moment, then motioned with his head for them to approach.

“Bitsillie is paranoid, Al. He probably has a good idea why his cousin was killed and that he could be next. His driver looks meaner that a rabid coyote,” Charlie commented.

“He may not want to go inside to talk, especially with other ears listening,” Al pointed out. “Let's go over. Just keep your hand away from your weapon. If either he or his bodyguard gets jumpy they're going to race out of here, even if it means running you down.”

“You first, you're the cop.”

Al climbed out, then came around the front of the Charger, into the light beneath the caf
é
sign, smiling all the way. He nodded to the driver, then lifted his jacket to show the badge clipped to his belt.

Charlie got out next, followed by the driver, who eyed him carefully, pulling back his jacket enough to reveal a big handgun at his waist.

“I'm Officer Henry with the tribal police, and this is my brother, Charlie, who has a personal interest in this case. Is Mr. Bitsillie your passenger?”

“That's right,” the driver acknowledged, looking over for a second at an old pickup that was just turning into the parking lot. “I've heard a lot about you Henry boys. I'm Fred Nakai, former sergeant in the Gallup PD. Thanks for your service, soldier,” he said, reaching out to shake Charlie's hand.

Al accepted the offered hand next, shaking it quickly. “We need to talk with your boss, Nakai. Inside, or out here?”

“Let's go inside,” a voice called from the other side of the Caddy. A tall Navajo in his mid-forties with slicked back hair, wearing an expensive-looking black suit and tie, came around the front of the car toward them. “I don't like standing here in the open, boys.”

Charlie and Nakai both turned at the sound of a vehicle coming into view from behind the nearest row of parked trucks. The black four-door Crown Victoria sedan moved toward the street, then suddenly swung around in a skidding turn and raced back across the lot.

“Down!” Charlie yelled. Nakai reached for Bitsillie, pushing him down just as a burst of gunfire erupted from the open windows of the Crown Vic. The car slid to a stop, with at least two shooters firing rapidly at the casino manager and Nakai, who was trying to stay between the vehicle and his client.

Charlie had his weapon out in a heartbeat. Lying prone, he fired several rounds into the big sedan, aiming at the windows. Al, somewhere behind him, also began to return fire.

The Crown Vic accelerated and raced toward the street, weaving, apparently out of control. The car struck a stop sign, bounced off the curb, then angled into the highway, crossing both lanes. It swerved erratically another fifty feet, then suddenly exploded with a blast that deafened Charlie and shattered the window of the caf
é
behind him. A brilliant plume of flame shot up from the inferno and chunks of metal and glass arched across the sky. One of the Crown Vic's doors skidded across the parking lot, spinning around like a pinwheel before it stopped, smoking and on fire, beneath a light pole.

“Call it in,” Charlie yelled, scrambling to his feet and running over to where Nakai and Bitsillie lay on the asphalt.

Blood was flowing from at least two wounds in Nakai's left leg, and one in his left bicep. He groaned, rolled off Bitsillie, then leaned over the casino manager.

“Shit!” he cursed. “Call the EMTs.”

Charlie could see Bitsillie clearly. He'd taken more than one hit in the torso, and bloody bubbles were forming around his upper chest. But that was the good news. His face was a mess, and it would take a skilled mortician to avoid a closed casket at this man's funeral.

“Al, you hit?” Charlie yelled.

“No,” Al mumbled, stumbling over. “Just twisted my ankle. Bitsillie?” he said, stepping close.

Nakai was shaking his head. “Never should have gotten out of the fucking car.”

Charlie's eyes were on the parking lot now, ignoring the fireworks display coming from the black sedan. He could see drivers climbing out of their rigs, yelling back and forth. The old pickup was gone, having slipped away in the confusion.

He looked over at Al and pointed toward the sedan, which was roaring like a blowtorch. “We got in some hits, but no way our bullets did that. That blast didn't come from the fuel tank either, at least not the first one. I've seen it before.”

Al looked at him curiously. “Don't tell me the shooters decided to blow themselves up. This isn't Afghanistan.”

“No, it isn't, and if suicide was on their mind, why not just drive right up to us and push the button?”

“The dark red pickup. It's gone. I saw a woman looking over just before the shooting started,” Nakai broke in. “This can't just be a coincidence—it was all too well timed.”

“You think you could identify the woman?” Al asked.

“Probably not enough to make an arrest. All I recall is that she had black hair,” Nakai replied.

“Good-looking?” Charlie suggested, already with someone in mind.

Nakai nodded. “Come to think of it, yeah. I got that impression.”

“You know what I'm thinking, brother?” Charlie said, looking over at Al. “We were followed, and we led that bitch and her people right to her next target.”

“Yeah. I have no doubt now that Sheila Ben was behind this.”

Charlie nodded. “With the loss in manpower, she's now getting personally involved. After that necklace screwup, she's also making sure nobody in her crew is going to be in a position to point fingers.”

“What the hell you two talking about?” Nakai asked, then groaned loudly.

“Tell you later, Fred. Al, get the first aid kit out of my glove compartment,” Charlie ordered, looking down at Nakai's leg. “This is one life we can save tonight.”

 

Chapter Twenty

Al knew most of the responding officers—a mix of county deputies and tribal cops and one of the county fireman, so he did the talking.

Charlie stayed with Nakai until the EMTs loaded the bodyguard up and took him away, getting what description he could of the woman's image Fred had seen briefly. It could have been Sheila, but it would be up to the local investigators to get an ID from a photo array or whatever.

The burning sedan had been extinguished quickly once the firefighters had arrived, and now the locals were checking the wreckage and trying to locate the scattered debris, which littered the highway, the parking lot, and had even been blown across the highway onto casino property.

Inside the caf
é
, which was semi-open air due to the blown-out window, Charlie wrote his statement as a Navajo cop sat across from him. Al was still outside, talking to one of his supervisors.

Sensing he was being watched, Charlie looked toward the door and saw his mom and dad standing just inside. “I'm okay. I'll be done here in a few minutes and then we can talk.”

The tribal officer turned to look, saw Charlie's father, then stood. “Judge. Mrs. Henry,” he said respectfully, waving his hand toward an empty table. “Have a seat, if you'd like.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Begaye, I think we'd rather stand,” Al Senior replied, looking at Charlie's mom, who nodded.

The officer turned back, saw that Charlie had stopped writing, then looked down at the paper. Charlie slid it over and the officer read it for a while. “Very detailed. You never got a good look at the woman in the old pickup, then?”

Charlie shook his head. “Just the vehicle and two shapes inside, the driver and passenger. Mr. Nakai gave me these details of the woman. When he's interviewed at the hospital, maybe you can match this up with what he later recalls.”

“Then we're done. Thank you, Mr. Henry, once again. You may leave unless my supervisor outside has some other questions for you. He's the detective talking to your brother.”

Charlie stood, suddenly tired, and noticed the blood on his sleeves and hands. So much for shaking hands, something most Navajos weren't too fond of anyway.

Sergeant Begaye had seen his reaction. “There's a restroom where you can wash up a bit,” he said, pointing across the room.

The manager of the caf
é
, who'd seen a sudden increase in business despite having to clean up broken glass, stood as Charlie walked in that direction. “Extra towels and soap in there, Mr. Henry. Grab a cup of coffee on the way out, okay?”

Charlie nodded at the gesture. By the time morning came around, everyone in the Four Corners would have heard all about last night. He could see the headlines now.
Tribal casino manager murdered in Navajo Nation shootout. Tribal cop and war hero brother kill suspected gunmen in fiery blast.
So much for trying to live a normal life.

Of course there was no way he and Al's pistol shots had caused that explosion, and before long the forensics would find that the vehicle was a mobile bomb. Of course, then Homeland Security, FBI, and the State Police might get involved.

Maybe, though, the explosives used could be traced. At least Al was in a position to recommend which direction to look.

He'd already made a quick call to Gordon and his pal was doubly alert. If Sheila and Clarence were resorting to explosives now, how much more of the stuff did they have, and who was advising them on bomb construction?

*   *   *

Charlie left his parents' home right after eight the next morning and pulled into a parking slot in the alley behind FOB Pawn just before lunch. When he walked in through the back, Ruth was in the office entering records into the system.

“Charlie, glad you're back—and safe!” she said, turning around and standing as he entered the office. For a second she seemed like she was about to hug him, but finally reached out and touched his arm.

“Gordon told me about it. The news got it all wrong,” Ruth said.

“It'll take awhile for the facts to come out. You and Jake haven't had any problems, I hope?”

“Gordon's watched over us like a momma pit bull.”

“Are you calling me a bitch?” Gordon said, stepping into the office.

Ruth laughed.

“See you're back in one piece,” Gordon said, giving Charlie a punch on the shoulder. “Your brother too.”

Charlie nodded. “We still need to step up our security,” he said, looking at Ruth. “You might want to consider taking a few days off.”

“No, I feel safer here than alone in my apartment. And from what Gordon's been saying, neither Jake nor I are likely targets from this crazy lady and her son. It's not like they're going to come in the front door…” she began, then stopped abruptly, looking up at Charlie, clearly remembering that had already happened once.

“Not likely,” Charlie assured. “That didn't work out for them last time. Just keep an eye on the monitors for anything odd outside in the alley or out front, and don't take any chances.” He turned and saw Jake standing there.

“I got that, boss,” Jake said, nodding. “Good to see you back at work and … intact.”

Gordon turned to the big ex-wrestler. “Why don't you and Ruth take lunch now? Charlie and I will hold down the fort. Okay with that, partner?”

“Good idea. Anyone out front?” Charlie asked.

“Nope,” Jake responded, “but there was a kid about nineteen eyeing that Xbox at the far end of the display, and I'm guessing he's going to come back and make an offer. I quoted him sixty bucks, and he said he had to go find an ATM. I told him we'd hold on to it for a couple of hours—after that, it was on the market again.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

“Where we going?” Jake asked Ruth.

“Frank and Linda's? Their sandwich bar?” Ruth suggested, referring to the mom-and-pop grocery with the sit-down deli area as she grabbed her purse.

“Works for me,” Jake responded. “You two stay out of trouble,” he said to Charlie and Gordon, pointing to each of them.

“Yessir,” Gordon responded, saluting.

*   *   *

As soon as Jake and Ruth were gone, Gordon took a look out front, saw no one in the shop, and nodded toward the computer. “Your brother sent a copy of some surveillance footage taken from the truck stop and casino cameras.”

“Show me.” Charlie nodded toward the monitor.

Gordon sat down, and with a few clicks of the mouse an image appeared of the parking area in front of the truck stop caf
é
. In the background were the outlines of parked big rigs. After a few seconds Charlie pulled up in the Charger. The rest of the video from this angle showed the arrival of Bitsillie's car—closest to the camera now—the Crown Vic pulling up to the right of the screen, and all the rest. At the end of the segment the sedan exited the viewing field, and briefly, after that, a bright flash came from that same direction, lighting up the area.

“There's a different angle from the fuel pumps you'll wanna see,” Gordon said, clicking on another file. This time, they could see the old pickup pulling in, then parking. As the sedan with the shooters came into the lot, the pickup slipped out behind it, moving toward the street. There was little to see except the gun flashes coming from two different weapons, then the black sedan pulled out, bounced off the stop sign, swerved out into the highway, then raced off, weaving. Immediately there was a big explosion originating from the trunk of the vehicle, and it veered across the highway in flames. A second explosion, probably from the fuel tank, finished it off.