Dark Reservations (27 page)

“I'll call you.” Othmann pressed a button on his phone, and a moment later Books walked into the room. “David will see you out.”

They stood and made their way to the door.

“One last question,” Joe said. “How often do you travel down to Mexico?”

“Rarely. Why do you ask?”

“Do you know a Cedro Bartolome?”

“Should I?”

“That's what I'm asking.”

“Doesn't sound familiar.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Othmann,” Joe said. “Do you think we can have that tour now?”

“Maybe next time.”

“I couldn't help noticing the Navajo Yei mask,” Professor Trudle said.

Joe and Othmann both turned to face the professor, who stood before a display case, holding his phone. He pointed to an object behind the glass. “It's beautiful. Is it authentic?”

“I wouldn't waste shelf space on a fake.”

“That's what I thought.”

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CTOBER
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ONDAY
, 1:16
P.M.

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THMANN
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STATE
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EXICO

“I'm sorry, Joe,” Trudle said. “I couldn't help it. He was lying. There is no way he doesn't have records. No collector neglects his record keeping.”

They stood by their vehicles, in front of the Othmann mansion, discussing what had just happened. Joe surveyed the residence. The structure was Pueblo Revival style, with a flat roof and projecting wooden beams known as vigas, which, most of the time, were only decorative and served no structural purpose. The tan adobe of the building blended nicely with the surrounding desert tones. The grounds around the residence were well kept. Othmann surely used landscapers. But they wouldn't know what went on inside.

“Othmann's got a pretty big place,” Joe said. “He must have a maid or a cook, right?”

Trudle's expression showed his confusion. “I'm sure he does, but there's no way they live here.”

“Why not?”

“Would you want to be locked up in a house with those two?”

Trudle had a point. Joe changed the subject. “Did you see any of the items from your dig?”

“I don't think so. I can't be sure. Some of the stuff we saw is old enough to be from the same time period, but I didn't recognize any of the designs.”

“It's okay. I wasn't expecting to find anything.”

“Then why bring me along?”

“It was worth a shot. You know what you're looking at. To me, all that stuff was just old pottery and artwork.”

“There was something.” Trudle took out his phone. “The Navajo Yei mask.” He brought up the picture, then handed it to Joe.

On the screen was the image of a black-and-white over-the-head mask, leather, hand-sewn stitching, padded eye holes, ragged edges. A fringe of dangling thin leather strips circled the head like a lion's mane.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

“One of the most powerful objects in Navajo ceremonial magic.”

“Oh,” Joe said, losing interest. He offered the phone back.

“It's a Yei mask. They're used in Yeibichai ceremonies. Very sacred.”

“I'm not following you. Why should this interest me?”

“NAGPRA protects them. After the act was passed, universities, museums, and even private collectors had to return articles like this to the tribes.”

Stretch and Sadi might be interested, but Joe wasn't. “Come on. I owe you lunch.”

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M
ONDAY
, 1:18
P.M.

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THMANN
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STATE
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EXICO

Othmann and Books stood in front of two large computer monitors mounted on the wall, below which sat a bank of digital recorders. They were downstairs in the environmentally controlled room beneath the study. The screen on the left showed the study. The screen on the right was segmented into sixteen squares, showing views of all the hidden cameras on the property. One of the views was of the driveway in front of the house. Agent Evers and the professor stood by their cars, talking. They were too far to be picked up by the camera's mike. Othmann rewound the dedicated DVR that monitored the study. He stopped it at the point just before Professor Trudle asked about the Yei mask.

“There!” Othmann paused the video. “He took a photo of it.”

The frozen image showed Othmann and Joe engaged in conversation in the foreground. In the background, the professor held his phone in front of the glass cabinet.

Othmann pointed to Joe's figure. “He brought the professor here to get something on me.”

“Can that photo cause you trouble?” Books asked.

Othmann didn't answer right away. “I don't know.”

“Well, you'd better find out.”

“Don't tell me what to do. Of course I'm going to find out.”

Books grunted. Othmann didn't know what that meant, either.

“Did you hear what that asshole said to me? ‘How did you know he was a professor? How did you know my name?' Everything I said, he challenged. Did you hear him?”

“I wasn't in the room.”

“It doesn't matter. He's a fucking asshole.” Othmann flicked the screen with his finger. “The BIA's getting rid of him. He's a total wreck. A drunk. They don't trust him.”

“I think you should be careful around him,” Books said.

“Fuck him.”

Books showed no emotion. “Don't underestimate him. He's been around. He may be off his game now, but don't discount experience.”

“What am I, an idiot? It's covered. I'll know what the son of a bitch is doing before he does.”

Othmann rewound the video to the beginning of the interview. As he watched, he chewed the inside of his lip. Thinking. Hating.

Three rewinds later, he tasted blood.

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CTOBER
4

M
ONDAY
, 2:23
P.M.

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OWNTOWN
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Over lunch at a small Mexican restaurant in downtown Santa Fe, the professor shared his theories. He believed that prior to and during the rise of the Aztec Empire, when war waged among many of the tiny city-states in MesoAmerica, a few of the tribes migrated north, settling in Chaco Canyon. They organized the local nomadic and pueblo peoples in the area and established a highly sophisticated community. They introduced new ceremonies and the science of astronomy to the region, which explained the commonalities between the civilizations. While many archaeologists had speculated about trade between the groups, there had never been any physical evidence of a migration. That was until Professor Trudle found the pots. According to him, the large pots stolen from his dig site were proof. They were decorated with MesoAmerican imagery, but that wasn't nearly as important as what was found inside: organic residue. He'd taken several scrapings and later had them tested. Human remains. The pots were used to boil people, a common Aztec practice of sacrifice.

Toward the end of lunch, Trudle changed the subject and asked Joe about the court case Othmann had mentioned. Joe swallowed his pride and told the story. Felix Longman had been stabbed to death by his neighbor in his own house. Joe had been on duty and caught the case. He'd been hungover. The neighbor was arrested and the evidence collected. Joe cleared the scene and headed home in record time. Felix's mother called him an hour later and told him he'd left an evidence bag behind. It was the knife. He'd gone back quickly and recovered it. Later, when defense counsel had learned of Joe's sloppiness, they had rushed the case to trial. Joe took the stand in the afternoon and the defense attorney hammered him for hours on every detail of the case, especially on his handling of the evidence. By the end of the day, the defense was still not finished their cross-examination. The judge ordered Joe back the following morning to finish. That night, Joe drank himself into a stupor. The next morning, he didn't make it into court. When he did, it was too late. The damage had been done. The jury decided Joe was unreliable, so Felix Longman never got justice.

While Joe was baring his soul about Felix Longman, Chris Staples called. He said he wanted to talk. Joe told him he would stop by the campaign office after lunch.

Now, he was heading over to Grace Edgerton's headquarters. Back in Albuquerque, Stretch would be waiting for an update. This little detour would give Joe time to get his thoughts in order. Othmann had given him little. The Yei mask was interesting, but he wasn't sure how that helped him. Perhaps Stretch could run with it. No doubt Sadi would want to deliver her own gentle rebuke, perhaps battery acid in his face. Maybe he deserved it. He didn't have many leads left. He checked his notes. He still needed to interview Senator Holmes and the AIM character, Dwight Henry, aka Hawk Rushingwater. What he really needed was to talk to the agent who had worked the investigation back in '88: Malcolm Tsosie. Only he could tell Joe how these folks had reacted when they were first interviewed as part of the initial investigation. A person's first reaction was one of the best indicators of involvement or guilt. Maybe Dale could help him find Malcolm.

He texted Stretch a message to meet him at Mickey's at five.

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ONDAY
, 2:23
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DGERTON
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OVERNOR
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Joe sat in Chris Staples's office, listening to the fat man's problems.

Staples held up a stack of computer printouts. “Her polls are tanking. People think she was involved.”

“I can't help her polls.”

“I'm not asking you to.” He dropped the stack on his desk. A wave of cheap aftershave washed over Joe. It was tinged with the odor of sweaty desperation.

“Then why am I here?”

“Helena Newridge is looking into those threats from that AIM guy.”

“It isn't AIM. The guy started his own group. He called it Navajo NOW. It's a splinter group.”

“Who cares? The threat was real. If the public learns about those threats, they would have something else to hang their suspicions on. A lone terrorist. A fringe group. Take your pick.”

“That's stretching it. His letters were ominous, but no direct threats. They warned about unrest on the reservation.”

“And a year later, during the Peter MacDonald riots, two people were killed. It was civil war on the rez.”

Staples was right: There had been a riot and people had been killed, but in no way had it been related to Edgerton.

“I asked Ms. Newridge to hold off for a few days while I checked into it,” Joe said. “If you release that information to another paper now, you're interfering with my investigation.”

“And if you
don't
release it, you're interfering with my campaign.”

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ONDAY
, 4:54
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ICKEY
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“Gillian been around?” Joe asked when Mickey appeared at the tap to fill mugs.

“Haven't seen her.”

Joe wanted to be happy for her, happy she was getting back with her husband, happy her family was healing, happy to be happy for her. But a little part of him—maybe a not so little part—wanted to hear they'd been unable to work it out, and that she was unencumbered again and willing to reexplore the whole friend thing.

“Hey, Joe,” Tenny said as he sat on the stool to Joe's right, the only empty seat at the counter. Cordelli stood behind him.

“Peace?” Cordelli held out his hand.

Joe shook it, not too disappointed to see them.

He waved to get Mickey's attention.

“You guys eating, drinking, or both?” Mickey said.

“I'm in the mood for a hot dog,” Cordelli said.

“You'd pass up my Combo for a wiener?”

“I saw the Isotopes practicing at the field. It brought me back to when I was a kid and my pops took me to see the Reading Phillies, a double-A farm team out of Pennsylvania. We got a Coke and a hot dog on some sort of weird split white-bread bun. Man, it was the best thing ever.”

“You oughta try a Chicago dog,” Tenny said. He made a smacking sound with his lips. “Relish, pickles, tomatoes, peppers, onions, mustard, and a kitchen sink thrown in for good measure.”

“I can't believe you guys,” Mickey said. “I give you the best roast beef sandwich this side of the Mississippi, probably the other side, too, and you want a bologna tube. You believe them, Joe?”

“I'm with the guys on this. A hot dog has a special place in a man's heart. I took Christine and Melissa to New York when Melissa was about eight. We ice-skated at Rockefeller Center and then had a dirty-water dog from a street vendor. Just mustard and sauerkraut. Best ever.”