Rock with Wings (13 page)

Darleen had been quiet during dinner. Now she was watching the news on TV. Bernie joined her on the couch. “Hey,” Darleen said. “There was just something on about a movie at Monument Valley. Something with zombies. Rhonda is the star. Rhonda! Whoa. I wonder if Cheeseburger is working near there. Maybe he’ll get to meet her.”

“Bigman was talking about Rhonda at work. I’ve never heard of her.”

Darleen made a clucking sound. “Seriously? You must have seen her in one of those movies, and then she did the way-cool videos, and then she was on that TV thing, you know, with those cute guys? Has your husband seen her yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he could take a picture of her for me. That would be awesome.”

“I’ll ask him.”

Darleen said, “You sure were grouchy on the phone.”

“I had a bad day at work.”

“What happened?”

The question surprised Bernie—Darleen’s world focused on Darleen. But she filled her in on the details.

“Dirt Guy sounds like a weirdo to me. I’m glad he didn’t shoot you or something.”

“Me too.”

“Why won’t the FBI tell you about him?”

“I don’t know.” Bernie wondered how she could get more information out of Cordova.

Darleen changed the subject. “I found some forms for signing up for the IAIA at the library, and I printed them. Can you, like, help
me if I have questions and stuff? I want to get the forms to Santa Fe as soon as I can.”

Bernie glanced at the TV. A commercial with cats. “I think we should wait until we know for sure that you won’t have any more repercussions from getting arrested. The IAIA might not be the right place, and this might not be the right time.”

“Don’t be negative. On the website, they said students could submit a portfolio to be considered. What’s that?”

“They mean a collection of your art—drawings, paintings, photographs, sculpture, poetry, whatever.”

Darleen looked puzzled. “Seriously? How does that work?”

Bernie felt sorry for her. “Make a list of questions, like the ones you’re asking me. Call somebody there and ask them. I really don’t know everything. I leave that to Mama.”

The walker squeaked in the hall. “What do you leave to me?”

“Bernie was telling me what to do.” Darleen got up off the couch. “I’m gonna work on some drawings.”

Mama said, “Draw some horses, OK?”

“I’ll do one for you.”

Bernie heard the door to Darleen’s bedroom close.

Mama sat carefully on the couch. “We will need a plan for Darleen to go away from here. I can take my old rug to the Toadlena Trading Post. The one with the double-diamond design. See if that man will buy it.”

Bernie remembered the rug from her childhood. She’d sat next to Mama as the rug grew, day by day, inch by inch. Out of necessity, Mama had sold every other rug she made, but she’d held on to this one, and Bernie couldn’t imagine Mama’s house without it.

Bernie had financed her education with scholarships and a part-time job. “Sister might be able to get some grants to pay for school, maybe even a loan. If she went to school around here, she could live with you. That would be less expensive. I will check on that.”

Mama listened without responding. At least, Bernie thought, she didn’t argue. Maybe the notion of selling the rug was just a way to spur Bernie into action.

Bernie helped Mama get ready for bed, turned off the TV, and loaded the stew in her cooler. She knocked on Darleen’s door. “I’m going home.”

“Drive safe. Watch out for those dogs.”

“Why don’t you do your drawings in the kitchen sometime? Keep Mama company.”

“I can’t focus with the television blaring. Why don’t you—” Darleen cut the comment short, but Bernie heard the criticism. “See you later.”

On the way to Shiprock, Bernie stopped at the convenience store for a Coke. The clerk, who Bernie usually thought of as cranky, was smiling. “Looks like you’re having a good night,” she said.

“Just when you think you’ve heard everything. A tourist guy came in here. You know what he wanted?”

“Directions?”

“Well, yeah. He was looking for a house out by Ship Rock. But he wanted something else, too.”

“What?”

“Organic dog snacks.”

“What is that?”

“That’s what I asked. He looked at me like I was as dumb as a board. Then he said we need to make sure dogs eat the same high-quality food as people and, oh man, he went on and on.”

Bernie waited for the punch line.

“I handed him a package of jerky, that new, expensive stuff that says organic on the front and is made from buffalos. I told him that was what we used around here. He looked at it and bought four, no questions asked. For his dog!”

“Crazy, is it?”

“Amazing.”

As she headed for home, Bernie sipped her drink and thought some more about Cordova. She was eager to get the results of the tests on the dirt. Would the lab be able to find ancient pollen? Maybe the dark specks were scraps of charcoal from an archaeology site. Maybe Miller was a would-be grave robber. She was glad Largo had authorized the soil analysis, but if he hadn’t, she would have done it anyway on her own, just to scratch the itch.

She thought about Chee, pictured him happily working with the fancy movie people, too busy to call her. Then she remembered that she hadn’t called Louisa back. She’d stop by there tomorrow and talk to the Lieutenant about all this. Without Chee around, the days seemed longer. The distraction of a visit to Louisa and her mentor would do her good.

She made the call when she got home and Louisa picked up right away. “I told Joe you were coming, and he nodded. I know he’d like to see you, too,” Louisa said.

“I’ve neglected you guys.”

“I thought you were going on vacation. Monument Valley, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Bernie explained about Mama needing extra help, without going into detail. And about Chee’s temporary assignment.

“Can you stay for lunch tomorrow? Company would be nice.”

Bernie heard the loneliness in Louisa’s voice and realized that she was lonely, too.

“If you need to do errands or something, I’m happy to sit with the Lieutenant. I want to get his opinion on a situation at work.”

She heard Louisa fumble for words. “You know, I haven’t been out of the house except to take Joe to therapy or to make a quick trip to the grocery while he waits in the car. I might take you up on that offer. We’ll see. Drive safely.”

When Bernie hung up, she put Mama’s stew in the refrigerator and wrote herself a note to take it with her in the morning. Then she found one of Chee’s T-shirts to use as a nightgown and went to bed, listening to the rush of the San Juan River in the darkness until she fell asleep.

Louisa hugged Bernie at the door, invited her to sit on the couch next to the Lieutenant, and brought three cups of herbal tea. Bernie would have preferred coffee, especially in the morning. She took a sip out of politeness and noticed that the Lieutenant’s remained untouched.

“Thanks for the stew and that little cactus,” Louisa said. “What kind is it?”

“Some sort of barrel. I couldn’t find it in my cactus book.”

As they chatted, the Lieutenant seemed briefly curious about the conversation, then turned his attention to the view outside. This was the first time Bernie had seen the scar on his scalp, the place where the bullet had entered. He looked better than when she’d last visited, but his stillness surprised her. She had never seen him not reading, making notes in his little book, typing at his ancient computer, or talking on the phone and pacing as he puzzled out a crime. Now he looked out the window at a hummingbird feeder that hung in the shade of the back porch. Just watching. Just sitting.

“Since the Lieutenant can’t speak yet, how does he tell you what he wants?”

Louisa laughed. “I guess at it. He taps once for yes, twice for no. Sometimes he nods. He can write, but it’s difficult for him, frustrating. I’m getting pretty good at reading his mind.” Louisa put her hand on top of Leaphorn’s. “We spend a lot of time here with those beautiful little birds. They remind me of jewels with wings.”

“
Dahetihhe
.” Leaphorn turned toward Bernie when she said the word. “That’s what we call them in Navajo.”

After Bernie assured her that she was happy to keep Leaphorn company, Louisa drove off to get a haircut. In fact, Bernie welcomed the opportunity to have the Lieutenant all to herself.

Without Louisa there, Bernie could speak in Navajo, Diné Bizaad, and the Lieutenant seemed more attentive.

“You remember how you always helped Chee on his tough cases? Well, something happened at work that puzzles me. I am hoping you and I can come up with some new ideas. Or maybe you will just tell me I’m crazy to be obsessing about this.”

He tapped his index finger once against the top of the table next to his recliner.

“Does that mean yes, I am crazy?”

He tapped twice.

Bernie smiled. “Well, you might be wrong about that. Especially when you hear what happened.”

She told him about the traffic stop and the dirt. “The man offers me five hundred bucks and the rifle to give him a speeding ticket. Weird, huh?”

She looked toward Leaphorn. He was watching her.

“I arrested him because I knew he was guilty of something. But his car was clean: no drugs, no explosives, no hot credit cards. Not even any bootleg liquor. I don’t understand it.”

A cat—the cat she and Chee had fostered while Leaphorn was in the hospital—quietly jumped onto the Lieutenant’s lap. Bernie took a sip of tea, wishing she had more sugar for it. The cat had curled into a ball, and the Lieutenant was stroking it.

She told him about the soil testing she’d ordered and about finding Miller’s phone and her plan to follow up with the phone numbers. “Ever since I stopped that man, I’ve been wondering why he tried to bribe me if he had nothing to hide. I can’t get it off my mind. I know he got away with something. But what? Does this make sense to you?”

He tapped three times.

“Three? What is that? Maybe?”

He tapped once.

“I’ll have to tell Louisa that.”

He tapped once. How frustrating it must be for him to be unable to speak.

She watched one little bird drive another away from the feeder. “Maybe he planned to use that dirt for claim salting or something. Do you think that dirt is important? It’s tickling my brain, you know, like an itch that won’t go away.”

Leaphorn put his fingers together and made a circular sign with his right hand. She knew he wanted to write something. She pulled her notebook and a pen out of her pack. She found a blank page and handed him the pen. Slowly he printed, painstakingly forming each letter. He handed her the paper: one of several Navajo words that meant “Be careful.”

“Will you help me figure this out?”

This time the nod was strong, unmistakable.

When Louisa came back, she looked more relaxed. And she had an idea.

“I’m going to show Joe how to use my laptop computer. Since he can tap, I bet he could type.” She turned to him. “Do you like the idea?”

He nodded and tapped once.

“What about his old computer? He was used to that.”

Louisa laughed. “That dinosaur? It’s ready for a computer museum. No wonder he found computers frustrating.” Leaphorn’s old desktop machine had been hauled down to the office in Window Rock during the investigation into his shooting. Afterward the technician had returned it to Leaphorn’s office, but he didn’t get down on the floor to hook up all the wires again.

Louisa placed a plate of cookies on the table, crisp pink wafers with a sweet white filling of pure sugar, and went to get the laptop. Chee loved these cookies, and Louisa must have assumed Bernie did too. She ate one just to be polite. Leaphorn had eaten two and was munching on a third when Louisa came back with the computer.

“Could you set up Joe’s e-mail before you go?”

“Do you have an Internet connection?”

“Yes, I got it for my work, to stay in touch with the university. I’m glad we have it.”

Bernie quickly created the e-mail account, adding her e-mail, Chee’s, and Captain Largo’s in Leaphorn’s address book.

Chee called Turner’s cell phone before he left the station, and a man answered.

Yes, he was Turner. Yes, he’d worked on location scouting. Sure, they could meet, but not tonight. He’d see Chee at the movie site in the morning.

By the time Chee returned to Paul’s compound, his cousin had assembled an assortment of tools, including some actually designed for working on cars, and spread them out on a towel. A couple of friends had arrived, ostensibly to help. One of them had brought a welding torch. Someone had jacked up the People Mover on one side and spread out a blue tarp against the sand beneath the vehicle, covering the places where the oil had dripped out. The assembled group waited, drinking sodas from the can.

Chee changed clothes, then handed Paul his phone before maneuvering beneath the old vehicle.

“If Bernie calls, let me know, OK?”

“Sure. If it’s the bill collector, I’ll tell him to talk to Bernie instead.”

“Just say the check’s in the mail.”

“No worries, man. You want some music while you work?” Paul didn’t wait for a response. In a few seconds, Chee heard a Navajo rock band. Nice!

Removing the old part took longer than it should have. After half an hour of lying on his back beneath the vehicle, struggling with bolts that hadn’t been loosened since they’d been installed decades ago, he was glad when Paul squatted down to talk to him.

“You need a break, bro? Wanna soda?”

“I’m almost done.” Chee removed the final bolt, eased the oil pan onto the sand, and scooted out from under the vehicle. Paul’s buddies carried the pan to the welding area. Chee stood, stretched, rubbed sand on his hands to strip off the worst of the grime, and then walked to the ramada, where the man with the torch and solder went to work on the hole. Because of the desert’s dryness, the metal looked good otherwise. No rust.

Replacing the oil pan was harder, and Chee’s neck and shoulders ached when he finally finished.

“I appreciate it, man,” Paul said. “I could never have done what you did.” He patted his ample belly. “Even climbing down under there would have been tough for me.”

They added oil, and Paul started the engine, with Chee in the passenger seat. The friends left, and the two of them drove the half mile to the park road with no problems.

At the junction, Paul stopped. “How far is it from here to the place where you found the lost woman?”

Chee told him.

“Let’s go. I’d like to see that view she was so crazy about.”

Chee offered directions. They parked on the road, climbed the ridge—studiously avoiding the grave or any mention of it—and sat in the warm sand, watching as the moon began to rise over the
monuments. The still air smelled of dust. They heard coyotes singing in the distance.

“Young ones,” Paul said. “I like their music better now that we aren’t running sheep. I’m glad we came here, man. I was restless, you know, nervous about the tour tomorrow. I feel better now.”

Chee looked at the hint of stars appearing in the growing darkness and shifted to rest his back against a rock, adjusting until he found a smooth place, enjoying the evening. The raucous young coyotes reminded him of the two teenagers he’d met last night. Why were girls that age so infatuated with celebrities? He heard Paul begin to snore and nudged him with his foot. “Let’s head back. I want to get everything set for the breakfast so we can move quickly tomorrow.”

“I got the bologna and the bread.”

“I stopped at the store and bought what I need for burritos.”

“Fried bologna is good for breakfast,” Paul said.

As they hiked back toward the vehicle, Chee thought about the grave. Even though he didn’t like the idea, since he was this close, he should take another look. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if his call to Turner had had an effect, and the company had done the right thing and removed the grave?

“I need to look at something for work.”

“I figured. I’ll meet you at the People Mover.”

Unfortunately, the ring of rocks and the mound of dirt inside were still there. Chee lectured himself about it. There was no good reason a fake grave should spook him. He took a breath, and thought about how beautiful the evening was, how fortunate he was to be in this special place.

Then he saw what looked like a bone protruding from the red earth. Pushing back the impulse to walk away, he squatted down, pulled out his phone, turned on the flash, and took some pictures.
He was careful not to touch it. Even so, an uneasy feeling spread from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

Chee rose early to make breakfast for the group, cooking the onions, scrambling eggs with them, adding bologna and then cheese to the mix, and rolling it in warm flour tortillas for the expected customers. After the Norwegians’ problems with spice, he was tempted to leave out the chile to make the assembly quicker. But he’d worked with some Texans and remembered that they liked things hot.

Paul set up the coffee in his big black campfire pot and assembled cups, napkins, and some oranges. He loaded an eight-gallon thermos of water onto the People Mover.

The sky had lightened when Chee started his truck to follow Paul. He drove with the windows open, enjoying the cool air. From somewhere amid the monuments, he heard the raspy cry of a raven.

Paul made it to the Inn to pick up his customers without trouble, and Chee headed in to the police station. Today he’d talk to Turner and wrap up the grave problem. Maybe the bone he’d seen came from a chicken or something, another movie prop. Nothing to fret over. Bahe would rejoice at his competence and let him go home to Bernie a few days early.

He strolled into the office with a spring in his step.

Bahe had left a faxed copy of the contract between the movie company and the Navajo Nation. The contract clearly specified places that could be used for filming, and the area where the grave had been discovered was nowhere on the list. The company had agreed to restore each site where they worked to its original condition or better.

Along with the contract was a note Bahe had scrawled in red pen. “Prove they did it. Settle this today. Tsinnie’s contacts all say the grave came with the zombies.”

Guilty until proven innocent, Chee thought. He typed a note about the bone fragment and sent Bahe the photos. He wrote his report about yesterday’s contacts with the hotel security people, including the towels and necklace at Goulding’s. Then he picked up the copy of the contract and the citation Bahe had drafted and headed out to find Turner.

The film base camp buzzed with activity. Chee wondered why they bothered with the tent for the dining area. Sanitation rules or something? He would have rather seen the view. And it was hot inside, even early, despite the fans and the portable air conditioners the movie company had hauled in, all of it running by generator. However, the tent made an excellent container for the wonderful aromas of grilled bacon and plump sausages, pancakes with warm, sweet syrup, and the sweet fragrances of the bakery section. The plates of food the staff members enjoyed looked delicious. These people always seemed to be eating.

There were as many staff here now as when he had stopped by last night. A few people in zombie makeup and costumes chatted with normal-looking folks in shorts and sleeveless shirts over plates of omelets, bagels with cream cheese, whatever. The crowd was mostly young and white, with some Navajos and Hispanic-looking people among the crowd. Samuel was sitting by himself.

Chee unsuccessfully surveyed the room for a fellow searching for him. He thought it odd that most of the cast ignored his presence, a rare experience for a cop in a room of civilians. Even a Navajo cop, an extra-rare species, couldn’t compete with zombies.

Seeing a couple of men about his age in boots and jeans eating eagerly, he walked toward them. The cinnamon rolls they had looked good.

Chee introduced himself. “I need to find a Mr. Turner. Is he in here?”

“Never heard of him, but that guy might know,” said one of the men, gesturing to the left toward a man with a clipboard. “He’s one of the big shots.”

The man scooted his chair back from the table and rose as Chee approached. “I’m looking for Mr. Turner.”

“Michelangelo Turner at your service. Call me Mike. You must be Officer Chee? What can I do for you, Officer?” Turner looked to be in his late fifties. He was well-built, an inch taller than Chee.

“I’m investigating a grave we discovered out by Rabbit Ridge. I need to see scouting pictures to determine if it was there when the movie company arrived. Mr. Robinson said you would have them.” After he took a look, Chee thought, he would present the citation and be on his way.

“I never heard of Rabbit Ridge,” Turner said. “I have no photos to give you. I could have told you that on the phone. I’m sorry you wasted a trip.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Hard to miss a grave here in the naked desert, don’t you think?” Turner turned, ready to walk away.

Chee had seen this attitude before. “Sit down.” He didn’t like dealing with jerks. Turner frowned and sat, and Chee took the chair across from him. The man’s height was all in his legs. Sitting gave Chee an edge.

“I agree. It would be hard to miss a grave, and the people who live out here never noticed it until the zombie crews arrived. I’d like to learn that what some people think is a grave is actually just a misunderstanding. That’s where you come in.”

Turner scowled. “I don’t know anything about this. What do you want from me, man? We’re behind schedule, over budget. I don’t have time for this stuff.”

“Someone takes pictures as part of the site scouting. If you have a photo that shows the grave was there when you guys first came,
no problem. Easier for us is better for you. Otherwise, things get complicated, people start talking homicide investigation.”

Turner made a sound, a sort of a snort. “My assistant and I took photos all over the place. I didn’t see a grave. We stayed in the Jeep, didn’t do much walking around. It was March, freezing cold. And now it’s hotter than Hades.”

Chee heard the frustration but said nothing.

“Look, if there’s any problem with permits or stuff like that, Delahart is the man to talk to. He’s where the buck stops. Not with me or even Robinson.” Turner stood.

Chee stood, too. He remembered what he’d learned about dealing calmly with difficult people. “My boss wants me to get this settled. If you don’t have the photos, then I guess you and I need to drive out there together so you can see what I’m talking about. That might refresh your memory. The drive, and hiking to the gravesite, driving back, that’s at least an hour.” Chee looked down, then raised his gaze. “Longer, probably, because you’ll have a hard time getting traction in those shoes, and the heat will slow you down.”

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.”