Rock with Wings (21 page)

Chee wanted to say no, but what difference would a few minutes make? “We could sit in my unit. It’s parked over there.”

He opened the passenger door for her and climbed in behind the steering wheel, lowering the windows to catch the breeze and create an illusion of coolness.

“You know, this is the first time I’ve ever been in a police car.”

“That’s probably a good thing.”

She sat, staring out the windshield for a while. “I made a big mistake in the bookkeeping. It’s complicated, but in a nutshell I gave the company credit for a big sponsorship that hasn’t come in yet. Robinson trusted me and authorized the expenditures without asking enough questions. Delahart is the producer, so the buck stops with him, but I don’t think he even looked at any of the reports. We weren’t in the red yet, but it was just a matter of time.

“When I realized what I’d done, I went to Robinson with my resignation letter. He talked me into staying. He said that he and Delahart weren’t working together very well, and if I left, Delahart would blame Robinson’s management style and fire him. I didn’t want him to lose his job over me. He asked me for a commitment to stick with it, and I gave him my word.

“He said that because I’d created the situation, I should figure out how to fix it. We knew the sponsorship money was coming, it was just a matter of treading water, doing more with less, until then.”

“What does this have to do with Samuel?”

“I’m getting there.” She looked out the window at the sunlight reflecting off the other vehicles. “We trimmed expenses—Delahart was always harping on that anyway, so it didn’t look suspicious. But Robinson felt bad about what would have been the next step, cutting some people’s hours or letting them go. I had another idea. I’m good at blackjack, and I said with some luck, I could make up the deficit.”

Chee felt his jaw tighten. Gambling to pay debts was one of the top ten terrible ideas of all time.

Melissa didn’t notice his reaction. “Because I’m on the management team, I get to claim one of the empty seats on Delahart’s corporate plane. He goes to Vegas every weekend to meet with investors. Sometimes he’d invite Rhonda, our zombie queen, and tell Robinson to go along. I finagled an invitation, went to a casino with my own paycheck, and came back with about double. I showed Robinson how I put the winnings into the line items that were short. I did it three times, traveling with Delahart, Samuel, and some other folks who wanted to get away. I played at a different casino each time, and had more good luck. With a few more successful trips, I could have fixed the deficit without anyone knowing it had even been there.”

Melissa stopped talking. Chee thought about Delahart’s investors, about the cocaine, and Samuel’s spying. He doubted if the money problems were all due to Melissa’s error. “If you had almost fixed the budget problem, and Delahart didn’t know about it anyway, why did he decide to cut people’s hours now?”

“He’s a jerk. He wants more money for himself and his Las Vegas investors.”

“I still don’t see how this ties to Samuel’s murder.”

Melissa swallowed. “Samuel always went to Vegas because he was Delahart’s man. He decided I had a gambling problem, and he
threatened to tell Delahart I was embezzling to cover my gambling debts if I didn’t pay to keep him quiet.”

“Were you using company money to gamble?”

“No. Only my own. Robinson and I kept a second set of books, so when the sponsorship came in, I’d get back the money of my own that I’d loaned the company.”

A second set of books was another very bad idea, Chee thought. “So you let Samuel blackmail you?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have paid him. He started tightening the screws. Every time I got on the plane, the price of his silence escalated. That was why I had to return those beautiful earrings. I needed all the money I could find to keep Samuel quiet.”

Chee remembered something. “Robinson said he planned to fire Samuel before the incident with the girls, and that you talked him out of it. Is that right?”

“Another mistake. Samuel knew he was about to get canned because of the same sort of bad behavior you saw—getting too rough with trespassers, especially girls. He came to me and said that if Robinson fired him, he would go to his boss, Delahart, and say Robinson canned him because he knew I was embezzling, and Robinson was covering it up. Somehow Samuel knew about the second set of books. So even though I hated Samuel, I went to Robinson and begged him to give the jerk another chance.”

Chee let the silence sit between them until he figured out how to phrase what he wanted to say. Parts of her story didn’t make sense. “So Samuel was blackmailing and intimidating you and spying for Delahart on the rest of the company. Maybe he was blackmailing other people, too. It sounds like you weren’t the only person out here who would have been happy to see him dead.”

“I could give you a list of names as long as my arm. But they’re actors and technicians and extras and gofers. Not killers—unless it’s make-believe.”

“What about Robinson or you?”

“Sure, I wished him dead, hit by a truck, a heart attack, something that would remove him and the trouble he made. But I figured what goes around comes around, you know? A karma sort of thing. I hoped the havoc and pain Samuel caused would catch up with him in the end. I guess it did. I can’t say I’m sorry.”

Chee had been around people enough to figure she was telling the truth, at least mostly.

“What about Robinson? He asked me how Samuel treated the girls, and when I told him, he said he was going to fire him. Did he?”

“You’ll have to ask him about that. He didn’t mention it to me. I guess he didn’t want to hear me whining to save that weasel’s job again.”

She looked tired, he thought. Older than when he’d first met her on the sandy rise in the moonlight. She sighed and sat up a little straighter. “I’m thinking about how I’m going to explain this all to Delahart. I made a commitment to Robinson to finish the job, and I will if he doesn’t fire me.”

“Anyone can make a mistake. It sounds like you’ve taken some pretty creative steps to fix things. Maybe Delahart will hire someone to come in and help you straighten things out.”

“Yeah.” She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Without Samuel on the payroll, he’ll have some extra money for contract labor. But he’ll probably use it for nose candy.”

Chee opened the car door. “I’m going to talk to Robinson. You want to come?”

She shook her head. “Do you mind if I sit here a minute? I’m still figuring out what to do about this mess.”

Chee had the keys, his weapon, and his handcuffs with him. It was against regulations, but he didn’t see a problem. “That’s fine. Just be sure to lock the doors when you leave.”

It was, Chee knew, none of his business how the movie company handled its finances. Not his concern that Delahart stayed at an expensive hotel and ordered room service while a local guy who probably had a bunch of relatives he was helping out lost his job as a parking attendant because of budget cutbacks. His job, he reminded himself, was to serve the citation for the grave and to ask Robinson a few questions about his visit to the floor of the hotel where Delahart’s room was, and how he left without using the elevator.

As he walked toward the trailer, he replayed his conversation with Robinson about Samuel. Robinson hadn’t exactly said he was going to fire the man—he said he planned to “get rid of him.” Chee had interpreted that as the same thing. But maybe not.

He knocked on Robinson’s trailer door and noticed a young woman coming toward the place. Not exactly pretty, but handsome in an athletic-looking way. She looked familiar. Maybe he’d seen her in the food tent.

She stopped at the base of the steps. “Is Greg still here?”

“Robinson? I hope so. I’m waiting for him to answer the door.”

“He was upset after the meeting, dealing with so many angry people. They’re clueless. They don’t realize Delahart makes the money decisions. That dude is a coked-up rat bastard, but Robinson takes the blame.” She looked at Chee again. “He might be on the phone or something. We were going to fly out to Durango for a break from the heat. He was supposed to meet me at the car so we could head to the airstrip. Probably got a call.”

Chee knocked harder this time. “Mr. Robinson, it’s Officer Chee. I need to talk to you.”

“You’re a real cop?”

Only on a movie set would he be asked that question. Chee introduced himself.

“Sorry, I thought you were with the production. I’m Rhonda.”

“I hear you’re famous.”

“That’s me. Queen of the Zombies.” She flashed him a beautiful smile. “Are you here about Samuel?”

“Not exactly.” He didn’t want to elaborate.

She walked up the steps, knocked, and yelled. “Greg, open the door. It’s hot out here, honey. You need to talk to the policeman, and then we need to go.”

Nothing.

Rhonda pulled a key from her pocket, put it in the lock, and looked up at Chee. “You do it. I’m getting bad vibes here.”

Morning light nudged Bernie to wakefulness. It was already almost dawn. She ran, showered, had a bite of breakfast, put on her uniform for work later, and headed to Mama’s house. She wanted to talk to Mama about helping Bigman’s wife. If Mama had the energy, it might be a good solution to several problems.

As she drove, she thought about weaving. Making beautiful rugs took supple hands and multilevel thinking. Traditional Navajo weavers like her mother held several ideas in their mind simultaneously, moving one to the forefront and then another, focusing on details while simultaneously remembering the big picture and making the process seamless. She remembered how Mama could get lost in her weaving, sitting until it finally grew too dark to work and then stirring as if from a dream to consider what they’d have for supper or to ask about schoolwork. That was before arthritis took its terrible toll.

Darleen had the same ability to concentrate. When she was working on her drawings, it was as though she was in a trance. Weaving seemed to Bernie to be a more practical art, but at least her sister had something in her life that gave her pleasure and might be useful.

Bernie considered herself a practical, down-to-earth person. She liked facts, nailing down loose ends, corralling rowdy details one at a time and closing the case. She wanted to make the world a better place, not with art but in a concrete way. Her contribution as a police officer was to help make sure people like her mother and Darleen could live in peace.

If she hadn’t become a cop, she thought, she never would have met Chee, the man who made her life more beautiful. She’d come to a realization last night. Her husband would always love his work. She could be jealous of that passion, or accept it as something she’d known about him from the first day they met. It was who he was. And, she thought, loving his job didn’t mean that he didn’t love her, too.

She pulled up to Mama’s house and heard the blare of the TV through the open windows of her Toyota. Mrs. Darkwater’s big black-and-brown dog barked and charged at her car. It quieted down when she stopped. Bernie climbed out of the car and stiffened as the animal rushed to her. She thought it meant no harm, but she didn’t like dogs so close, sniffing at her. She hurried to the house and closed the door behind her.

The two elders sat side by side, watching a game show, one of those where the contestant gets the prize behind the door. They were giving the woman on the screen advice.

“No.” Mama leaned closer to the TV. “Pick number two.”

“You’re all right with number three,” Mrs. Darkwater said.

Bernie stood behind them. “Hello there, ladies.”

Mama patted the couch next to her, motioning Bernie to sit down. “Welcome, my daughter. You will like this show.”

Mrs. Darkwater moved over so Bernie could squeeze in next to Mama.

The woman on TV didn’t listen to Mama. She stayed with number three. The prize was a year’s supply of frozen pizzas. The shiny new RV was behind door number one.

The scene switched to commercials. Mrs. Darkwater said, “I heard that someone’s car got burned over there by Ship Rock.”

“It’s a bad place,” Mama said. “When people go out that way, things happen.”

“Did you hear why it happened?” Bernie asked.

Mrs. Darkwater spoke first “They don’t need a reason.” Bernie didn’t need to ask who “they” were. She could tell from Mrs. Darkwater’s tone that the reference was to skinwalkers.

Bernie wondered if her little sister was still asleep. Then she remembered that Darleen’s car was gone. “Where’s Sister?”

“Oh, she had to go to Farmington. She got a letter from the court.”

“Really? What did it say?”

“I don’t know. She said she didn’t understand it, so she drove over there.”

“Why didn’t she call them?”

“You ask too many questions.” Mama got up, using her walker to provide some leverage as she rose from the couch and to steady her steps to the bathroom.

“I think that one isn’t feeling good.” Mrs. Darkwater fluffed up the pillow Mama had positioned behind her back as she spoke. “She told me she has a pain in her side. Right here.” Mrs. Darkwater put her hand on her own ribs. “I had an uncle with that pain. He went to the hospital in Farmington. They took out the gall bladder. Then he had a stroke. He’s better now.” Mrs. Darkwater gave the pillow a final pat and put it back on the couch.

Bernie knew how lucky she was that Mama had such a concerned neighbor. “If Sister goes to school somewhere, it wouldn’t be good for Mama to stay alone here in the house. Something could happen.”

“You worry too much.” Mrs. Darkwater frowned. “When you think about problems, you get more problems and they get bigger.
That’s what happens.” She patted Bernie’s hand. “If something happens, you’ll do what you need to do then.”

It wasn’t the response Bernie was looking for, but she agreed with the logic. First things first. Still, she wanted to have a plan in place.

She fixed an early lunch for them all, and then Mrs. Darkwater headed home for an afternoon nap. To Bernie’s relief, the dog, which had been napping on the porch, followed after her. Mama looked tired.

“Before you take a nap, I need to talk to you about something.”

“I know,” Mama said. “Your sister and that school. I want to take a look at that place. How far is it?”

“About a four-hour drive.”

“Darleen will come with us. You both can drive.”

“I don’t think we need to do that yet.” Darleen should be in on this conversation, Bernie thought. The letter from Farmington must have to do with her sister’s arrest. “We should talk about this later, when Sister is ready.”

Mama had a question in her eyes. “When we go to Santa Fe, to see the school, will we drive by the car that burned?”

“No, you can’t see it from the highway.”

Mama nodded. “Good. What happened to the one who was driving?”

It never failed to amaze Bernie how quickly news spread on the reservation. “I don’t know, but at least he was not burned in the car.”

“I’m glad about that.”

Bernie mentioned Bigman’s wife and her desire to learn to weave. “Perhaps you know someone who could help her. She’s a good woman. She works at the school as a teacher.”

Mama didn’t respond except with a quick nod. Message received.

Bernie helped Mama lie down for a little rest, asked her about the pain Mrs. Darkwater had mentioned, and learned Mama didn’t want to talk about that.

Before driving back to the station, she walked over to Mrs. Darkwater’s house. The dog wagged its tail from the shade of the porch but, to Bernie’s relief, didn’t rise. Mrs. Darkwater sat working on a crossword puzzle. She tapped the point of her pencil gently against the page. “You’re a smart one. What’s a word that means ‘threatened’?”

“Scared? Or bullied?”

“Longer. Ten letters.”

Bernie thought. “Try frightened.”

Mrs. Darkwater looked at the page. “No. Third letter is a D.”

“Hmm.”

She glanced up at Bernie. “Drive back safely.”

“I will. I wanted to ask you something. How did you hear about the burned car?”

“Arthur told me. You met him. He’s my husband’s relative who drives the trucks with the packages. One of the other drivers saw it on fire out there.”

Back in the car, Bernie turned up the radio so she could hear it over the wind noise. KNDN’s broadcasts included a community calendar she always found interesting. That and the music kept her from thinking too hard about the talk she had to give to the Rotary, or about the mysterious Mr. Miller and how his stolen car had ended up burned and abandoned. Clearly, Miller hung with the wrong crowd.

She drove and listened, warm and windblown, and had almost reached the pavement of 491 when she heard her phone chime—a new text. She glanced at it when she stopped at the stop sign where the dirt and pavement met. A note from Darleen:
call u 2nite
. Bernie called her, and her voice mail picked up on the third ring.

She cruised past a new billboard touting Primal Solar and a herd of lean horses standing in the shade of the sign. Pulling off the highway to check on a pickup truck parked on the shoulder with its emergency flashers blinking, she realized it was empty. A car obviously speeding passed her, and she flashed her lights. She thought again of Miller’s car. Was it stolen for a joy ride? Of all the cars in Farmington, why his? Of 27,400 square miles of reservation, why there? And why would a guy in such a big hurry to get back to Flagstaff be in Farmington? She remembered the calls on his phone to the Farmington motel. Interesting.

When she got to the office, a domestic violence call was waiting, the kind of case she dreaded. Usually it meant a husband or boyfriend hurting a woman, sometimes with the kids as witnesses. Those incidents made her angry, broke her heart, and left her feeling totally ineffectual. Largo knew she’d rather deal with drunks or druggies, gang fights, even suicides. Anything but DV and men who let anger and fear, usually fueled by alcohol, transform them into pathetic monsters. It wasn’t the danger—that was an integral part of police work. She hated the devastation of beaten women and terrified little ones.

She ran into Bigman in the coffee room and told him the truth, at least part of it. “Largo wants me to settle this burned-car deal. I’ve got to track down a potential witness and see if I can reach Miller—you know, the guy who owned it. Can you take the DV?”

“I was going to volunteer for it,” Bigman said. “I’ve dealt with these two before. And I owe you for that Rotary talk tomorrow. I’d rather face a wife beater than those men in suits any day.”

“What about the new guy?”

“I’m taking him with me. It might get dicey out there.”

“I meant for the speech. I told Largo I’d do this one, but there will be more requests.”

“You want to scare him into resigning already?”

Bernie called the deputy in Farmington who had handled the report on Miller’s stolen car and left a message. She made more calls, attempting to get in touch with the delivery driver who might have seen the burning car. Then, while she waited for callbacks, she got busy with the task she wanted to postpone indefinitely—creating the Rotary talk from the outline she’d made in her head. She didn’t mind writing the speech, but the talking part bothered her.

She envisioned the Farmington event. She’d be an outsider in a group where everybody knew everybody, a woman among mostly men, a Navajo in a group that was white with a few Hispanics, a young woman in a crowd contemplating retirement. But no matter what the audience, public speaking didn’t come easy to her. She was slightly more comfortable with it than Chee, or maybe even Captain Largo, but that only meant that she’d faced a roomful of strangers eighty-five percent terrified.

The Rotarians had requested an overview of the work the Navajo police did, so that was what she focused on: the history of the force, the size of their jurisdiction, how they worked with other agencies like the New Mexico State Police and the San Juan County sheriff’s office. Then she’d touch on the issues that continued to face the department and the people they served: lack of community activities as alternatives to crime, the growing influence of gangs and drug trafficking, too few officers, too few resources, too much territory to cover.

Bernie had made a decent start when Sandra buzzed her. She had a call from a truck driver.

“Yes, ma’am, I saw that blaze. It was somethin’. I couldn’t figure what it was at first. I thought it might be a house. I wanted to turn down that dirt road and have a look, but I was already off schedule.”

“Do you drive that route all the time?”

“A couple times a week I might have packages out that way.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

She heard silence on the phone, and then he said, “You mean, like somethin’ I didn’t usually see out there?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, now that you remind me, I saw a hitchhiker trying to thumb a ride out to 491. I notice them every once in a while. Not too often, because there’s barely any traffic out that way. I can’t pick nobody up. Company’s strict about that. One time my pal Mario, well, he stopped for this kid—” The driver’s tale grew elaborate, wandering away from the investigation Bernie was pursuing.

When he paused, she steered him back to the hitchhiker. “You mentioned that in addition to seeing the fire, you saw a person trying to catch a ride. Why did you think that was odd?”

“Well, he was wearing hiking shorts and had a dog with him. He was tan, but not an Indian, no offense. I wondered if he’d been climbin’ Ship Rock or something. I know that’s against the rules, but people try to do it anyway.”

“Do you remember how tall he was, anything else about him?”

“He looked like an average guy in a ball cap. Maybe thirty or early forties. He had on a long-sleeved shirt with those shorts.” The sketchy description of the hitchhiker matched her memory of Miller right down to the baseball cap.

After Bernie hung up, she talked to Largo about her interview with the driver.

“It’s summer, Manuelito. Shorts really aren’t suspicious unless you see me wearing them.”

Navajos of Largo’s generation dressed conservatively, with a tip of their Stetsons toward the cowboy tradition. The generation above them, elders like her mother and Mrs. Darkwater, had been raised to be even more modest. Bernie remembered Mama always in a skirt until Darleen had persuaded her to wear sweatpants for a big, messy job around the house. Their mother had become an instant
convert, but still always wore a long skirt, a velvet blouse, and her best jewelry to visit friends and relatives.

Largo leaned back in his chair. “What I wonder is who burned that car and why, and whether we’ll be seeing more of this out here. Follow up on that gang stuff Wheeler copied for you. I would like to get this off the books. Any luck reaching Miller?”

“No, sir. I called the number the deputy gave me. No answer, no way to leave a message. I called his old cell phone. Same results.”

“OK. Back off. Cordova handles that, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” She stood to leave. “How did that domestic violence call work out?”