“I doubt that, Mags. An extramarital affair doesn’t seem like Bobby’s style. Is anything else going on?”
She shrugged in resignation. “The ranch is in trouble financially, but that’s nothing new. Things have grown steadily worse since the downturn in the economy.”
“If the ranch needs an infusion of cash, can’t you go to Bobby’s dad? He’s still part owner of the ranch, isn’t he?”
“Bobby won’t even consider it. Things aren’t going well for Doug either. He’s seen a decline in business at his John Deere franchise. People just aren’t buying farm and ranch equipment like they used to.”
“I don’t know if it’s possible, but has Bobby considered going to work for his dad at the store?”
“Not seriously. Doug has already had to RIF several employees. I think Bobby feels that if he had to ask his dad for a job, it would just place an extra burden on the business.”
As she walked him to the Tahoe, Books said, “I’m really sorry that you guys are struggling, Mags. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Maggie hugged him.
Chapter Ten
Books drove to Becky’s thinking not only about the medical condition of his father, Bernie, but adding to his worry list, the money troubles facing his sister and brother-in-law. He arrived just in time to say goodnight to Cody, Becky’s seven-year-old son. He and Becky spent the next hour discussing the financial plight facing Maggie and Bobby as well as the community in general.
“I would never have guessed that Bobby and Mags would end up having financial problems,” said Books.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know—maybe because Bobby’s folks have a lot of money. If the ranch floundered, I always assumed that all Bobby would have to do is ask his dad for help.”
“Everybody in this economy has been hurt, J.D., some worse than others. I wouldn’t assume that all Maggie and Bobby have to do is snap their fingers and Doug will write a check. From the rumors I hear around town, it sounds like his John Deere dealership is in trouble.”
“Maggie mentioned that. I didn’t want to suggest it, but I wonder if she’ll have to look for work away from the ranch. I’m sure she doesn’t relish that idea, but it might become necessary. She really enjoys being a stay-at-home mom and raising the boys.”
“It’s probably not your place to suggest it, but it makes sense.”
“How’s your father getting along financially?” Neil Eddins was a powerful local rancher and real estate developer who headed an anti-environmental group called the CFW, Citizens for a Free West. Neil wasn’t a big fan of J.D.’s and the feeling was mutual.
“Dad’s struggling like everybody else. I’m sure he and Boyd are facing some of the same difficulties on the ranch that Bobby and Maggie are. And the real estate business has taken a nose-dive—people wanting to sell but no buyers. They’re handling mostly short sales and foreclosures.”
“If the big ranchers are having trouble, you can imagine how difficult it must be for the little guys.”
It felt good to have someone like Becky to discuss things with. When the conversation finally lapsed, they decided it was time to go to bed.
They showered together. It was easy for Books to slide into Becky’s arms and feel her silky warmth pressed firmly against him. He kissed her, enjoying the feeling of her soft lips on his. They made love and then drifted into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
***
Wednesday Morning—Day 6
Books was up early the next morning. He planned to stop at the crime scene, have another look around, and then make the hour and a half drive to St. George in time to catch the area pawn shops when they opened.
The first rays of sunlight bathed the western mountains in shadowy light as Books eased the Tahoe down an almost nonexistent dirt road to where the Rogerses truck and trailer were parked. Orange crime scene tape was stretched across a wide swath of terrain surrounding the camp site. He’d developed the habit, as a robbery/homicide detective in Denver, of revisiting a crime scene alone after the lab technicians had done their work. It sometimes gave him a new and different way of looking at the crime.
A Mohave County sheriff’s deputy sat in a patrol vehicle drinking coffee from a thermos. He got out as Books approached and introduced himself.
“Deputy Speers, pleasure to meet you,” said Books.
“Likewise.”
“Everything quiet?”
“Speers nodded, “I’m bored out of my skull.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have to do this much longer.”
“Things quieted down as soon as it got dark. The Rogers family and their entourage disappeared. Now that it’s getting light, they’ll probably be back.”
“Have you heard anything from Special Agent Maldanado?”
“I think he’s finished here,” Speers said. “We plan to release the truck and trailer to the family sometime this morning.”
Books spent the better part of the next hour rummaging through the truck and trailer looking for anything that the crime scene team might have missed. On foot, he retraced the path the couple’s ATV took to the excavation site laboriously searching the ground for any missed clues. The spring morning was deathly quiet, save a cool breeze that gave his arms goose bumps and made his nose run.
He carefully studied the footprints in the sand and clay soil where several unknown subjects had confronted the Rogers couple. His instincts told him that this wasn’t a random incident but a well planned crime that had intentionally targeted the victims. But why? Probably, he thought, because somebody familiar with the Rogerses knew about their antiquities collection as well as the fact that Rolly Rogers was a famous, or perhaps infamous, pot hunter. He retraced his steps to the camp site, climbed into the Tahoe, and headed for St. George.
As he rolled into St. George, Books’ cell phone rang. It was Randy Maldonado. “I hope you got the word from Sutter about the family search party,”
“I did.”
“We’ve kept them away from the crime scene about as long as we can. Unless you’ve got something else that needs to be done, I suggest we let the family have the truck, trailer, and ORV.”
“Fine with me so long as they understand we might need to produce that stuff in court at some point in the future,” said Books.”
“We managed to get photos and measurements of the footprints Joe Nez discovered. Somebody out there’s got damn big feet. One of the boot impressions looks to be a size thirteen or bigger.”
“Big feet, little brain,” said Books.
“Let’s hope so.”
“Did the crime scene guys find anything else?”
“Two cigarette butts and a trowel, but I think you saw those. Are you making any progress on the investigation?”
Books told Maldonado what he had learned about the ATM transactions and the Navajo male who had attempted to sell pieces of the stolen jewelry.
“They’ve been taken, no doubt about that,” said Maldonado. “The only question now is, are they alive?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Keep me posted on what’s going on. The brass in Salt Lake City is already pestering me for information about the case. I’ll keep them off your back as long as I can. Do a good job, Books, and it’ll definitely get you noticed at headquarters. Screw it up, and, well, you know.”
Books understood but didn’t really care about what the brass in Salt Lake City thought. He did, however, promise to keep Maldonado in the loop.
Unsure of the number or nature of the pawn shops in St. George, Books made an unscheduled stop at the local police department. Burglary detective Greg Bell gave him a rundown on each store.
“Look,” said Bell, “we’ve got four pawn shops in town. Two of the four almost never cause us p
roblems. The other two, Red Rock Pawn and Gun and St. George Pawn, receive a lot more of our time and attention.”
“How come?”
“The usual. We make unannounced inspections of all pawn shops, and these stores have had a tendency to be a little careless about their record-keeping. Careless record-keeping is often associated with taking in disproportionate amounts of stolen property.”
“I see. Anything else I should know?”
Bell thought for a moment. “Yeah, one thing. Red Rock Pawn and Gun is operated by a guy named Harold Tittlemeyer. Harold’s brother, Ernie, is a known fence. He’s been busted multiple times for possession and receiving stolen property. Because he’s a convicted felon, he can’t be on the business license to operate a pawn shop.”
“So he hired his brother as a front man.”
“Exactly. Harold runs the place, but the money behind the operation comes from Ernie.”
“Guess I’ll visit those two stores first.”
“I would.”
Books thanked him and left.
St. George Pawn had a flashing neon sign in the front window that read “quick loans” and “checks cashed.” The clerk didn’t own the shop but understood the drill whenever police officers came knocking. A perusal of the shop’s records revealed nothing remotely similar to the items stolen from the Rogerses’ home.
Books hit the mother lode at the next stop, Red Rock Pawn and Gun. Harold Tittlemeyer took a careful look at the photographs of the stolen property. He slowly shook his head. His eyes never left the photos as he muttered, “I had a funny feeling about that kid.”
“What kid would that be?” said Books.
“Navajo kid came in here yesterday with some jewelry pieces he claimed had been left to him by his deceased grandmother—not much I could do except take his word for it.”
Sure, thought Books. Don’t ask too many questions.
It was the same turquoise necklace and matching earrings that the suspect had attempted to sell to May Flagg in Page the previous day.
“I’ll need to take the jewelry, and I’d like the identity of the young man who sold it to you. His name wasn’t Sammie Yazzie, was it?”
“I don’t think so, but let me have a look at the records,” said Tittlemeyer. He stepped over to the store’s computer and pulled up a spreadsheet.
“There he is. The kid’s name was Joe Benally. He had a Utah driver’s license with a Kanab address, if I recall correctly.”
“You got a look at his driver’s license?”
“I think I can do better than that,” said Tittlemeyer. “How would you like a copy of the license?” He excused himself and disappeared into an office in the rear of the store emerging moments later with a photocopy of the license.
Books studied the drivers’ license carefully. Joseph Benally was a twenty-year-old whose five-foot eleven-inch,” 170-pound frame matched the physical description May Flagg had provided. The license showed an address in Kanab.
“How much did you pay for the jewelry?”
“We dickered back and forth, but he finally accepted $150.00 for the neclace and $75.00 for the earrings.”
“Can you identify this kid if you were to see him again?”
“You bet I can. Would you do me a favor? Be sure to get us into the court record for $225.00 in restitution.”
“Sure.” Books wrote a receipt for the jewelry and left the store, anxious to call Sutter and Tanner with the news.
Before returning to Kanab, Books stopped at the remaining St. George pawn shops to see whether Benally had tried to sell additional stolen items to them. He came away empty.
During the return drive, Books spoke with Beth Tanner. She had been conducting interviews with anybody who might have theories about the crime or who might be familiar with the mysterious Navajo youth. Now they would have a name to go with the physical description.
In response to the news about Joe Benally, Tanner said, “That’s awesome news, J.D. This is going to make the sheriff happy.”
“Now that we’ve got a suspect, Charley can hold a news conference and tell the press that his department is making progress on the case.”
“Have you got any idea where we can find Benally?”
Books gave her the Kanab address on Benally’s drivers license.
“Can I go after him or do you want me to wait until you get here?”
“Before you go, run Benally for outstanding warrants and prior record—always a good idea to know what you’re walking into. And make sure you’ve got back-up.”
“I’ll do it. Anything else?”
“Yeah, call the juvenile court and see if he’s got a juvie record.”
“Will do.”
“And call me as soon as you clear the house.”
Books stepped on the Tahoe’s accelerator. He probably wouldn’t make it back in time to go with Tanner, but he wanted to be as close as possible in case she needed additional help. He hoped that she would heed his advice and not go out to Benally’s home by herself.
Books was all too aware that young people in general tended to see themselves as bullet-proof, and rookie cops were no exception. More than a few times during his years in Denver, he’d seen their enthusiasm and gung-ho attitude, get them hurt or killed. He didn’t want to see that happen to Tanner.
As he hit the outskirts of Kanab his police radio crackled. It was Tanner informing him that Benally wasn’t at the address in question but that she had received several useful leads from the occupant of the home as to his possible whereabouts. Books glanced at his watch. Tanner certainly hadn’t wasted any time getting to the address.
They agreed to meet at Books’ office and plot their next move.
Chapter Eleven
At BLM headquarters, Books opened the small refrigerator that occupied one corner of his small, cramped office and peered inside. “I’ve got Coke, Diet Coke, or Arizona Iced Tea—pick your poison.”
“What about the Corona I see in there?” said a smiling Tanner.
“Observant one, aren’t you? I’m afraid that’s an off-duty beverage only.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to settle for a Diet Coke.”
He handed it to her and grabbed a can of iced tea for himself. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What did you find at the house?”
Tanner removed a small notebook from her uniform shirt pocket and began turning pages. “It turns out the house belongs to Diane and Bruce Alston. Mr. Alston works for the Utah State Highway Department and Diane is a teacher’s aide at the local elementary school. They have three kids and also take in foster children from the State Division of Child and Family Services.”
“Go on.”
“Benally was a foster child with the Alston family for part of his senior year. Then he got kicked out of school for fighting and smoking pot. Mrs. Alston said he fell apart after that and ran away. He was in and out of detention and several group homes until he turned eighteen, and then the state cut him loose.”
“Does he have priors?”
“He does. His juvenile record includes two arrests for possession of alcohol, one for possession of a controlled substance, one for shoplifting, and two for burglary of a vehicle. Since he turned eighteen, he’s had one arrest for DUI, as well as citations for driving while suspended and driving without insurance.”
“Sounds like a kid carrying a lot of baggage,” said Books.
“I think so. According to Mrs. Alston, he comes from an extremely dysfunctional family. His mother and father were both alcoholics. The old man apparently enjoyed beating his wife while the kid watched. The father is currently doing time at the state pen in Gunnison for armed robbery.”
“Books shook his head. “It’s hard to blame the boy when the most important role model in his life is an alcoholic
and a stick-up artist. It’s a damn shame.”
“Sure is.”
“Do we know what the kid’s driving?” asked Books. “I ran him through DMV and they couldn’t find anything registered to him.”
“Mrs. Alston says he drives a rusty old blue Mazda pickup registered to his uncle. The uncle, Howard Benally, lives in a small town on the rez called Many Farms.”
“I hope the kid didn’t make a run for the rez. When did Mrs. Alston say she last saw him?”
“She says about a month ago. He drops by once in a while and asks for money. They give him food but never cash.”
“Does Mrs. Alston have any idea where he’s staying?”
“That’s gonna be a tough one. She thinks he spends some of his time living out of the truck. His mother has remarried and lives in Escalante. He apparently crashes with her periodically. He’s also got a girlfriend in Escalante by the name of Ruthie Todd.”
“Navajo or Anglo kid?”
“Anglo. She apparently lives with her parents.”
“And what about his mother?”
“Her name is Ruby Grant now. It was Ruby Benally.”
Books paused considering their dilemma. They had too many leads to follow and too little time. “Here’s what I think we should do. Let’s get an arrest warrant charging Benally with one count of possession of stolen property. We’ve got enough evidence to sustain that charge. We can always add other counts later.”
“That makes sense.”
“Then we better haul ass to Escalante and hope we find him at his mother’s place or with the girlfriend. We gotta locate this kid ASAP. I think he’s the key to finding Rolly and Abby Rogers, and the longer it takes, the less chance we’ll have of finding them alive. Do you want to write the warrant or would you like me to do it?”
Tanner looked slightly embarrassed. “Would you mind doing it? I’ve never written one before.”
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