Rock with Wings (20 page)

Then, instead of the windmill, she saw an animal standing in the road, its eyes reflecting greenish gold in the fading light. In her years of cruising back roads on the reservation, beginning long before she was a legal driver, she’d encountered scores of coyotes. This one was huge, unlike any coyote she’d ever seen. She slowed down to let it move aside, but it held its ground. Goose bumps rose on her skin.

Her logical mind tried to make sense of it. Maybe it was a hybrid, an animal born of a large coyote and an even larger dog. Maybe a wolf hybrid had escaped from that refuge near Ramah and trotted out this way.

She slowed some more. The animal watched, challenging her to proceed. When she honked, it began to lope toward the car.

Without hesitation, Bernie made a U-turn back to Mr. Tso’s place, glad that the dirt was hard-packed here and, for once, happy that there had been no rain to soften the soil. She glanced in her rearview mirror, wondering if it would chase her, but the animal had disappeared.

She drove faster now that she knew the road, her brain repeating the soothing words of the old prayers. When she passed the house, Aaron’s truck was gone, the porch empty, the place dark.

At the burned car, Bernie slowed down to study the ridge above. Its rocky profile cut into the blue-black of the early evening sky.

The People Mover sat in Paul’s yard like a prehistoric monster. Chee parked beside it. Next time someone wanted to make a horror movie, he thought, they should consider using all the dead cars and pickups in Navajoland. Have them come back to life and stalk their former owners, punishing them for neglect and abuse.

His cousin rested under the ramada with a book:
John Wayne’s Kitchen
:
Favorite Recipes of Monument Valley
. A covered pot simmered over the wood fire.

“Hey, is there a recipe for True Grits in there?” Chee said.

“Haven’t gotten to that yet. I’m looking for something easy I can fix when I start having guests in the hogan. And when you abandon me, bro.”

Chee sat next to him. At that level, he could smell something interesting coming from the pot. “An officer I work with told me you had some trouble with the People Mover.”

“No worries. It came out all right. Ron Goodsprings took the customers, and I rode along as sort of his assistant. He said you’re working with his niece. Was she the one who told you?”

Chee nodded. “I thought I had fixed the problem for you. I’ll take another look and see if I can figure out what went wrong.”

Paul gave him his classic grin. “You don’t have to play mechanic. The one who helped me with the customers figured out what the problem was. All fixed.” He went back to the book. “You remember pigs in blankets?”

“I sure do. Hot dogs with a biscuit on the outside. Your mother made them all the time, and we loved them. Is that what you’re cooking?”

“Nope.”

“So are you going to explain what went wrong with the beast?”

“I was hoping not to, but here goes.” Paul put the book down so he could use his hands to tell the story. “The man who helped me had an idea that maybe the thing wouldn’t run because it was out of gas. He loaned me a gas can and took me to the station after the tour. I bought gas. Then he gave me a ride back to the People Mover. I poured it in and—
gr, grr, grrrr, grrrrrr, vroom!
Off we went. That sucker uses a lot of gas, and the gauge doesn’t work.”

Chee smiled. Another lesson in the futility of guilt and worry. “So what’s for dinner?”

Paul handed Chee a rag. “Take a look.”

Chee tripled the thickness of cloth against his skin and lifted the handle on the heavy pot. Inside was a concoction he couldn’t recall seeing before. “I give up.”

“I call it Monument Valley Surprise. It’s an experiment. If we like it, I might serve it as dinner to the folks who come to stay here overnight. The recipe says to cook it another half hour.”

As it turned out, half an hour wasn’t enough. But Paul declared it fit for visitors and had three helpings. In addition to a bit more cooking, Chee suggested fewer onions and chiles and more potatoes and meat.

Chee slept poorly, troubled by images of Samuel’s body and upset at the idea that the man had hurt and embarrassed little Alisha, and
probably other girls too. He missed Bernie and wondered if she missed him. When he finally did fall asleep, he dreamed that Darleen was in jail for stealing Melissa’s earrings.

He awoke feeling unsettled, said his prayers with corn pollen, started a fire from last night’s embers, and cooked enough eggs for breakfast for two. Paul joined him, and they watched as morning brought the color back to the monuments.

Chee took the smoother route back to the office. When he reached the pavement, he noticed the undelivered citations on the seat next to him, the original and the new citation, which included the addition of human remains to the illegal gravesite. He’d check in at the office and start the paperwork with Bahe that meant he could go home. He could deliver the citation on his way back to Paul’s. Or maybe Tsinnie could be the gofer. As he pushed the button to lower the window, he realized that he’d miss driving this unit—it worked better than the one he used at Shiprock. And he’d miss Bahe. He would recommend that the station look into luring Erdman away from the hotel, putting her to work for the Navajo police. She wasn’t Navajo, but you didn’t have to be to join the department. She was smart, she knew the area, and she had good instincts. Perhaps a woman would get along better with Tsinnie.

Bahe was on the phone when Chee got to the office, so he read the digital edition of the
Navajo Times
and then checked his e-mail. Something from “leaphornj.”

He opened it. The Lieutenant’s reply to his request for help dispensed with pleasantries and got right to business:

necklace 1930s. museum-quality heirloom Persian turquoise? Robert Etcitty

Etcitty was a jeweler Chee had heard of, a man too young to have been born in the 1930s.

Leaphorn had typed a line of inverted triangles to separate the next section:

∨∨∨∨∨

poker chip = Stagecoach

Chee pulled out the chip and looked at it to make sure. No, it didn’t have a stagecoach on it. The impression was of an eagle. The photograph he sent must have been blurry or something.

Chee walked outside, gathering his ideas, considering what to send as a reply. The June heat radiated off the walls and terraces of the visitor center. He noticed it more outside the station than in the valley itself, probably because of the added warmth generated by the air-conditioning units and the pavement and concrete. He climbed the steps to the vista point and spent a moment taking in the procession of vehicles stirring up dust on the vista road and the view of the Mittens and Merrick Butte against the cloudless turquoise sky. Merrick Butte took its American name from a soldier turned silver miner who died at the spot. But unlike the grave Chee had inadvertently discovered, Merrick’s place of death had an impressive natural marker, a massive tower of red sandstone rising over the desert. Chee took the poker chip out of his pocket and studied it again.

Back in the office, he first thanked the Lieutenant for the information.

I must have not given you a good photo of the chip. The design is an eagle with three arrows in its talons. I just sent it to offer you an idea of the size of the necklace. Are you sure about the silversmith? I know a man by that name, and I believe he would be too young to have made it
.

He inquired about Leaphorn’s health and Louisa and clicked send. He felt a twinge of sadness. In all the years they had worked together, he had never questioned the Lieutenant’s mental fitness, but evidently the brain injury changed things. He hoped the change was temporary.

Chee saw the neat pile of papers he expected, the forms he had to complete to mark the termination of his assignment at Monument
Valley, on Bahe’s desk. But the captain didn’t give them to him immediately.

“Remember that message you sent me for Burke, the one about the photos Samuel supposedly took of the girl?” Bahe wasn’t as jovial as usual.

“Sure. What do you need?”

“Burke found the pictures, still on that phone, along with quite a few more. Similar poses of other women, and maybe some minors, too. Since that teenager was the only one we had a name for, Burke tried to reach Isenberg to talk to him and his daughter. No luck.”

“The only phone number I have is the sister’s cell phone. I’ll give him that. The family is at Goulding’s.”

“They left yesterday. Burke thinks that’s suspicious. Burke doesn’t have any suspects in the murder at this point except Delahart, and maybe this girl’s father.”

“Did he find the gun?”

“No. It wasn’t in the room.” Bahe paused. “He asked if we could give him a hand. Burke wants us to review the security recordings from the hotel.”

“Us? Why? It’s a federal case.”

“I owe the guy a favor. So look at the tape and see if you spot Isenberg or anyone you recognize from being out on the movie set.”

Chee thought about it. “You know, the camera only captured people leaving the elevator and walking down the hall. Other movie people might have rooms on that same floor.”

“So check that out too.” Bahe tapped the flat end of his pencil on the tape. “Monica can set up the player. She’s good at that stuff.”

Bahe pushed the pile of papers, the exit forms, toward Chee. “I know you’re ready to get home. It’s been exciting having you here, to say the least. Just leave these on my desk before you head on back to Shiprock.”

Monica dealt with the technology smoothly, showing Chee
the necessary buttons on the remote to run the TV monitor and the DVD player. Why was every one of these things just different enough to make life complicated?

“Any questions? And no, I won’t bring you popcorn.” She walked to the door and then came back. “I forgot to tell you to check your voice mail. You know that upset girl who came in yesterday? She called while you were talking to Bahe. I put her through to leave a message. And your wife called. She sounds nice over the phone.”

“She’s nice in person, too. I’ll introduce you when I’m back here for the sing.” She would know he meant the healing ceremony with the
hataalii
.

“Good. I’m looking forward to that.” Monica smiled at him. “If you have any trouble with the machine, give it a slap on the top with the palm of your hand.”

Chee pushed play and saw the elevator door and an empty hallway. Then came Samuel, walking toward Delahart’s room. More empty shots, and then he watched a man in a hotel uniform roll the room-service cart down the hall. Erdman’s assessment had been correct. People struggling with suitcases, a couple of older women holding little dogs, dry kids in swimsuits getting into the elevator, wet kids in swimsuits getting out of the elevator. The hallway was busier than he’d expected. After some serious boredom, Chee realized he could listen to his phone messages and watch the procession of people at the same time.

Courtney’s voicemail thanked him for yesterday. Then she changed the subject.
“Hey, I’ve been on the movie’s fan page, and they had a story that said a policeman found a grave out where they’ve been filming, and now everyone is investigating. Do you know about that? Way bad!”

Delahart’s back at work, Chee thought. Would he use Samuel’s murder as a promotional tool too? He was surprised that Courtney’s message didn’t mention human bones.

He slowed the tape a few times and made note of a person or two whose body language seemed suspicious, and then fast-forwarded through a section with no people as he listened to Bernie’s message: “
I miss you. Hope you’re OK and not working too hard. Call me
.”

He was ready to punch in her number when something on the TV monitor caught his eye. He put the phone down and hit rewind. Someone who looked like Greg Robinson left the elevator and walked down the hallway toward Delahart’s door. Chee hit rewind and watched again. As Delahart’s assistant producer, Robinson probably had a million things to talk to him about. Chee decided he shouldn’t have been surprised to see him on the tape.

All in all, not much to go on. Of course, whoever shot Samuel could have entered and left by the open back door, but he hadn’t noticed any sand on the balcony’s floor or on the carpet. And there didn’t seem to be enough footprints in the sand for both coming and going. Chee focused on the images, waiting for Isenberg to appear and for Robinson to walk back to the elevator. He watched until he came to the footage of himself and Brenda heading for the room. No more Robinson. And no Isenberg.

The emergency exit staircase was at the end of the hall, he remembered, out of view of the hallway camera. Robinson could have left that way. And perhaps Isenberg, if he had been there at all, had come and gone on the back stairs, too. Erdman had mentioned other surveillance cameras that showed all the exits. Chee called her and left a message, asking her to have someone bring that tape over as soon as possible and deliver it to Bahe.

Bahe had left before Chee finished, so he wrote a note about Robinson and his request for the second tape, along with the paperwork to get a paycheck. Since he had to drive out to the movie set to serve the citation, he decided to do Burke a favor and ask Robinson face-to-face what he was doing at the hotel, clear up that loose end. It wasn’t his case, but he was curious.

Without Gerald’s oversight, the movie production parking situation had disintegrated into total chaos. He’d mention this to Robinson, too. The operation needed the parking attendant, budget crisis or not.

When Chee opened the door to the office trailer, the air-conditioned breeze bordered on too chilly. BJ looked up from her desk. “Hi. You’re back.”

“Yes, looking for Robinson again.”

“Good timing. His meeting broke up ten minutes ago.”

Bad timing, Chee thought. He’d hoped to arrive before the meeting started.

“Did you hear any more buzz about the murder?”

“No. I didn’t hear any more news about that. But—” She hesitated. “What the heck, you’ll hear this anyway. A lot more people are having their hours cut. Everyone’s upset.”

“Too bad.”

“It’s sad for the people who thought they’d have work for the next month or so.”

“And for the locals, too.” Chee heard something that sounded like a gunshot. “What was that?”

“Must be the special effects guys. You hear all kinds of things out here in zombie land. Don’t let it spook you, Officer. Robinson ought to be in the tent still—a lot of people had questions for him. If he’s not there, check his trailer. You know where it is.”

In the tent, Chee saw rows of chairs that had been set up for the meeting and clusters of people standing and talking, but no Robinson. His goal was to deliver the citation, ask the man what he was doing in the hotel, finish the paperwork, and get back to Shiprock and Bernie.

But Melissa had noticed him and walked his way. She looked disheartened.

“Hi there,” he said.

“Did you hear about the cutbacks?”

“BJ told me.”

“It’s my fault.”

Chee remembered that she was the bookkeeper. “BJ said the word came down from Delahart himself. How could it be your fault?”

“I never should have let Samuel—” He heard the anger in her voice. “Can you give me some advice on something? I mean, could we talk privately somewhere?”