Dark Reservations (10 page)

“So what did you get from Edgerton's file?” Stretch asked.

“A little, not much. It was worked pretty much as a fugitive case. Though they did track down one threat, a hate letter from an AIM member out of Crownpoint. But they really didn't follow up on it.”

“Did they check out the wife? I prefer simple motives like jealousy.” As usual, everything was black and white for Stretch, which was often the best approach for most investigations.

“I can see her taking out the husband and girlfriend, but the driver?”

“Just a witness she couldn't let live. She got his congressional seat, right? Did she get his money, too? Maybe a little jealousy, a little greed. Kind of like a tossed salad of motives.”

“I thought you like to keep it simple. And anyway, she's got her own money.”

“You're right. Keep it simple. Put me down for the jealousy angle. A woman scorned. Powerful shit.”

“Speaking of scorned females, how's the wife?”

“She loves me.”

“Taking the whole family to Italy helped, I'm sure.”

“Didn't hurt.” Stretch gave a sly smile.

Silence.

“So … do you need any help on the Edgerton case?” Stretch asked.

No doubt Stretch wanted to change the subject. Joe knew it was awkward talking about family to someone whose own family had fallen apart. But Stretch really did deserve the Best Dad award. He paid his dues every day. Did all the fatherly stuff. Spent time with his kids. Coaching, volunteering, attending all the crappy school plays, even a cool vacation every year. His kids were teenagers now, but he still seemed able to stay involved in their lives. Joe felt an ache in his chest.

Joe's phone rang. It was Bluehorse, reporting the latest development. When he finished, Joe provided a sage response.

“Shit.”

Bluehorse responded in kind.

“Well, we knew it would get out fast,” Joe said. “Forget about it. We got a dog team coming out from Albuquerque tomorrow at nine. Do me a favor, though. Hold off on telling your chief.”

Joe clicked the phone off. “That was the NPD officer I'm working with. Apparently, the
Gallup Herald
put out a story about the bullet holes in Edgerton's vehicle. They're really hyping it up.”

“What newspaper wouldn't?”

He didn't want to make the next call, but he had promised Dale he would keep him updated. Joe swallowed. He tasted pride again.

S
EPTEMBER
27

M
ONDAY
12:45
P.M.

R
ESIDENCE
OF
E
DDIE
B
EGAY
, P
UEBLO
P
INTADO
, N
EW
M
EXICO

“Looks abandoned,” Joe said.

He and Stretch walked to the trailer. Several sheets of peeled aluminum sheathing exposed rotted plywood beneath. The trailer had once been painted yellow; now it was the whitish gray color of oxidization.

Stretch climbed the wooden steps that led to the front door. He placed each foot with care. Joe stayed a few paces back, watching the windows. Several were covered with trash bags.

Stretch knocked. They waited. An unpleasant smell tainted the air. Spoiled food maybe.

When no one answered, they walked around back. Cardboard covered another two windows.

“I'm guessing he didn't put any of that twenty-five hundred toward renovations,” Joe said.

“More likely he pickled his liver with it.”

Joe lifted a corner of the cardboard and peered inside. Empty, except for discarded beer cans and saved trash.

When they went around the other side, heading back to the front, Joe noticed an animal lying on the ground. A dog. He walked over. Its head had been crushed. Dry blood caked the animal's ear and jaw. From the degree of decay and the colony of insects, Joe guessed the animal had been there a few days, which explained the smell.

“Do you think he would have left his dog like this if he was staying here?” Joe asked.

Stretch shrugged. “The guy's a dirtbag. Who knows?”

Begay's trailer wasn't part of a community. It sat by itself in the open country, like so many of the residences on the reservation. No electric, no water, no paved driveways, just desert and sun. About a quarter mile to the south, there was a hogan, the traditional Navajo dwelling, a small, round wooden structure with an east-facing door. The Navajo believed in greeting the morning.

“Let's check out the neighbor,” Joe said.

“Why bother? He got scared and ran off. I'm sure he'll turn up in a few weeks.”

“We're already here.”

“Fine.” Stretch plodded back to his Suburban.

Joe looked down at the dog. It was a mutt, mostly Lab. He hated to leave it out there to rot, but he guessed that was nature's way. He checked the sky. No crows. Strange. A crow could smell decay for miles. Were they afraid of this place? Ridiculous. But Joe sensed that somehow this dog was wrong. Perhaps it was a harbinger of things to come.

Stop it,
he told himself.

He didn't like thinking that way. Life was already chock-full of crap, no need to conjure up more.

“I'll walk. Stretch my legs a little.” And clear my head, too, he thought.

Stretch nodded and climbed into his vehicle.

Joe started toward the hogan. He forced his mind back to his job search and the insurance adjuster position. He decided he wouldn't send out that follow-up letter. A desk job might be nice for a change.

S
EPTEMBER
27

M
ONDAY
1:04
P.M.

W
ASHINGTON
P
OST
H
EADQUARTERS
, W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Helena Newridge had one unusual physical tic that she'd noticed in herself a number of years ago. She probably had others but never bothered to take inventory. It was during the time she studied mass media at UDC and had seen Bree Simpson talking to Barry. Bree was the typical buxom-beauty media darling. And Barry, whose last name she no longer remembered, was someone Helena wanted to trounce after a bar run. It was when she'd seen the two of them talking, and how easy it was for someone like Bree to attract the attention of a man, that she felt her right eyelid do a dance. And now, as she weaved through the pool of respected contributors granted cubicle space, her right eyelid performed the Macarena. It made her realize just how much she wanted to be one of the regulars, and not a gossip nobody.

“One day.” She said those words quietly so as not to disturb anyone, but she knew no one would have paid her mind anyway. Her byline was more of an afterthought than a selling point for the
Post.

She strode into the editor's office. Arvin, the manager of classifieds, slumped in one of the chairs before the desk of Ezra Gray, a managing editor at the paper.

“Morning, boss.” She placed the printout of the article she'd found on Ezra's desk. She sniffed. Cherry. On the bookcase behind him lay his pipe. She'd never seen him smoke it, but rumor held that he celebrated putting a big story to bed with the pipe and a glass of Royal Lochnagar here in his office, door shut, and the journalist of the moment in company. He had a flair for the old traditions of journalism. That was one of the reasons he held on to the gossip column, while many other papers did away with theirs or went Web only, which was often where Helena's contributions ended up.

Ezra read the
Gallup Herald
's article about bullet holes and blood in Edgerton's vehicle. He lifted an eyebrow.

Helena shifted her considerable weight from her right leg to her left.

He handed the single page back to her. “It's interesting.”

“Interesting? Damn right it's interesting. I'd like to run with it. It's the trifecta: sex, money, and murder.”

The managing editor laughed. “What about Senator Fordham falling down during the banquet last night? She may have a medical condition she's hiding.”

“There's nothing there. She's fat. I'm fat. You should see me trying to walk in heels.”

Arvin laughed behind her.

She leaned on Ezra's desk. “I want out of gossip. Give me a chance, please. And I'm smelling front-page serial.” She sniffed. “Ahh, it smells like Pulitzer.”

Ezra laughed. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Bernstein.”

She lowered her voice to what she hoped was a sexy whisper. “Come on, Ezra. You give me seven days in the Land of Enchantment and in seven months you get to enjoy a free lunch at Columbia while I receive my award.”

Ezra's laugh was worthy of imitation by any respectable archvillain.

Helena's stomach dropped. “Okay. How about I go out there on my own dime? If you like my angle, you approve my reimbursement.”

“I like your spunk, Helena,” Ezra said. “It's a deal.”

S
EPTEMBER
27

M
ONDAY
1:15
P.M.

P
UEBLO
P
INTADO
, N
EW
M
EXICO

Stretch was already talking to the occupant of the hogan when Joe walked up. They stood in front of the house, next to an older dark blue pickup, which clearly had earned the moniker Ford Tough. The resident was a middle-aged woman with a slight hunch to her back. She barely reached Stretch's chest and had to crane her head to talk to him.

“Eddie ain't been around for a few days,” she said. “He usually asks me for a ride on Fridays to go into town. He don't drive no more because of his eye.” She pointed to her own right eye, hesitated, then pointed to her left.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Stretch asked.

She looked over to Eddie's trailer. “Is he in trouble?”

“Nope. I just need to talk to him.”

She studied Stretch's face. “Last week, maybe Wednesday … no, Thursday. He had a visitor. Pretty late. I only looked over because I heard his dog barking. I think they was fighting.”

“Why do you think that?” Stretch asked.

“I heard Eddie yelling.”

“Who was the visitor?”

“I don't know. I think he was a
bilagáana
—I mean a white guy. He drove a nice truck like yours, maybe gray. Hard to tell 'cause it was almost dark out.”

“What'd the guy look like?”

She pulled up her baggy bright red Fire Rock Casino T-shirt. Its out-of-shape neck had been drifting downward. “I don't know. A white guy. Big. They was too far away.”

“Since he hasn't come back, do you know where he might be now?”

“His mom lives in Shiprock. The trailer there was his dad's.” She pushed out her lips and chin toward Eddie's home. Navajo often
lipped
directions rather than pointing a finger. “He died a few years back.”

“Thank you, ma'am. If I leave you my card, will you call me if you see him?”

She nodded. Joe doubted she would. Stretch handed her his card.

“I have a question, ma'am,” Joe said. “There's a dead dog by Eddie's house. Do you know how it was killed?”

“Killed? Someone killed it?” She lowered her head. “We get skinwalkers around these parts. They'll kill a dog if it keeps barking. And Eddie's dog liked to bark.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Joe said.

S
EPTEMBER
27

M
ONDAY
, 4:28
P.M.

M
ICKEY
'
S
B
AR
& G
RILL
, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO

The savory smell of roast beef welcomed Joe. The aroma was from the full steamboat cut of beef that Mickey roasted to make his signature sandwich, the Combo, chunks of tender beef on a kaiser roll with a thick slice of provolone cheese, and a wet, sloppy scoop of gravy. His stomach knocked to tell him it was ready. All he'd eaten today was a bean wrap, which he'd gotten that morning from the burrito lady who came by the office carrying a small cooler filled with chicken, beef, or bean. The burrito lady didn't know she'd been sustaining him for the past several months. Sometimes, he'd buy two or three, storing the extras in the office fridge for lunch or dinner, sometimes taking them home for the weekend.

Walking toward the bar, Joe noticed a solitary figure sitting at a table in the corner of the dining area, reading a book, sipping a drink. It was the woman from Friday. What was her name? Ginger? No, Gillian. Nice name. He hadn't thought about the sound of it before.
Gillian.
Smooth.

Mickey grinned and whipped out a frosted mug from under the counter. “Evening, Joe. What's the good word?”

“The guys will be around tonight. They had an arrest.” Joe felt awkward attending the ritual, since he hadn't been invited that morning, but he didn't want to come off like an angry little brat, even though what he really wanted to do was break their toys and throw a tantrum.

“Anything I'll see in the paper?”

“No. Just the usual. Sex, lies, and video-streamed preliminary hearings.” As heinous as some of the crimes were on the reservation, very little of it found its way into the newspapers or the evening news.

Mickey filled the mug from the tap. “Too bad. A good juicy case is just what you need. Get a little media attention and—boom. The job offers come pouring in. Everybody loves a celebrity. And you're probably due your fifteen minutes of fame.”