by Don Travis
Gad answered. “Shared what he could remember. Talked about a Silver Wings. His blood tends to rise when he thinks about that one. We kinda put together that he’d got mixed up with them slave traffickers. You know, sex traffickers.”
I nodded. “He did. And I believe he was escaping from them the night you saw him have that bicycle wreck. Sort of a mystery how they hung on to him as long as they did.”
“Wasn’t no mystery about it,” Dibe said. “That boy was hung up on crack cocaine when he come to us. Bad shape. Laid right here on the ground and shook and shimmied so hard I thought he was gonna die.”
“How is he now?” Paul asked.
“Some better. I’m a hand trembler, you know. I figured he needed a ceremony, but nobody had money for the proper kind. But Hosteen Pintaro set him down and told us the kinds of vegetables and drinks and herbs he needed. He got some better after that.”
“Lots better,” Gad said. “Still has the longing but not the hurting. At least not so bad.”
Dibe pointed a long finger at Paul. “You… Paul. You got a connection with Jazz?”
My companion looked blank for a moment before he caught her meaning. “No. I met him once three years ago. I only contacted Juan Gonzales on the internet trying to find out where Jazz disappeared to.”
“You oughta know that Klah and Jazz, they found one another.”
“Good,” I said. “If Klah’s kin of yours, then he’s good people. And that’s what got Jazz into this mess in the first place. He was looking for a good man.”
She nodded emphatically. “Well, he mighta taken the hard way, but he found one.”
PAUL WAS silent as we pulled away from the Hatahle camp, but as soon as we swung onto I-40, he turned in his seat to face me. “Now we know why Jazz hasn’t reached out for help. He didn’t know where to search.”
I grimaced. “That’s part of the answer. But I also expect that he’s deeply ashamed of what he’s gone through and wasn’t ready to talk about it. That’s why his memory seems to come back in snatches.”
“What if he’s so ashamed he heads to Texas or California or somewhere?”
“Then there’s nothing we can do about it. But at least he has one thing he didn’t before.”
“What? Oh, you mean Klah. Yeah, he sounds like a solid citizen. Glad they found one another.”
Five miles passed before he spoke again. “I hope he shows up so we can catch that Silver Wings guy and put him where he belongs. Have you figured out the Zimmerman contact yet?”
“I suspect it’s a Bolton contact, and Zimmerman’s just his hammer.”
“You think the lieutenant’s Silver Wings?”
“Don’t know about that. But I think he’s involved some way.”
“Maybe Henry will have better luck than we did.”
After we arrived back at Post Oak Drive, I phoned Hazel at home and learned she’d received no message from Henry. Paul wanted me to call him, but I knew he’d contact us when he had something to report. Besides, I wanted to phone Gene and let him know Zimmerman was on the prowl again… or still.
Henry didn’t call, but he showed up around eleven looking for a place to stay for the night. He’d located Pete Toadlena, and together they’d made the rounds of Indian hangout places looking for Klah and Jazz. They’d struck out, but that was no surprise. The two hadn’t had time to reach Albuquerque by horseback. But at least Henry alerted Pete and his friends to watch for the men.
Then Henry delivered the real shocker for the day. Louie had called to let him know the Navajo Tribal Police wanted Jazz for questioning in the death of Julian Nesposito.
Chapter 29
SATURDAY MORNING I tried to run down Lonzo Joe at the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office. No luck. The dispatcher said he was off duty for the weekend and intended to visit his family on the big rez. Repeated calls to his cell went straight to voicemail, which led me to believe he was out of range of a tower.
After Paul and Henry left in Paul’s Charger, heading for the state fair to check out the rodeo hands to see if anyone had seen or heard from Klah, I lost patience and dialed the flip phone I’d left with Gad. He hadn’t seen “a hair of his nephew’s head,” as he put it. I couldn’t simply sit there and molt, so I drove downtown to my office, where I pulled out all the transcriptions Hazel had done of my notes and sat down to figure out a time line. Could Jazz have killed old Nesposito?
After half an hour of orienting myself and marking down dates and events on a calendar, I came up with the following:
Sunday, August 22, Gad and Klah rescue Jazz after his bicycle wreck on I-40 and take him to To’hajiilee.
Wednesday, August 25, Jazz and Klah see Detective Zimmerman at the village and learn Jazz’s name is Jasper (Jazz) Penrod.
Thursday, August 26, Louie Secatero confronts Nesposito and learns Jazz’s fingerprints were found on a stolen bicycle.
Tuesday, August 31, Milton Atcitty warns the Hatahles that Nesposito is searching for Jazz.
Wednesday, September 1, Dibe sells her grandmother’s squash blossom necklace and buys a pony for Jazz. The boys depart that day for Alamo.
Wednesday, September 1, Nesposito is killed on the lip of Black Hole Canyon on the big rez, some 200 miles away!
Most likely before Jazz and Klah ever left To’hajiilee.
I leaned back in my chair and relaxed. There was a good chance we could satisfy the Navajo police of Jazz’s innocence and get the bulletin canceled. At least that would prevent Zimmerman using it as cover in his search for Jazz.
I no sooner completed that thought than the phone rang. Gene was on the other end.
“Bad news. I stopped by the station for a minute and learned the Navajo cops are looking for your buddy Jazz.”
“Yeah, I already know. I’m at the office finishing a time line. I know where Jazz was the day Nesposito was killed. To’hajiilee. That’s couple of hundred miles away. Believe I can prove it.”
“It won’t mean much, but I’ll put out the word I hear the kid has an alibi. Afraid that won’t slow Zimmerman down.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Yeah. And got nothing out of him. He’s on a job he can’t talk about. That’s the line I get.”
“Bolton—”
“Bolton’s no help. Says he can’t interfere with an ongoing investigation.”
“Since when?”
“Yeah, well….”
“You got time for lunch?”
“Nah. Glenda and three-fifths of the kids are outside in the car. ’Fraid I’m eating Navajo fry bread and mutton stew for lunch at the fair.”
“Why three-fifths of the kids?”
“The oldest two are in wheels of their own. Can’t tell you how secure that makes me feel.”
POURING OVER my file on Jazz’s case yielded no more epiphanies for me, although I considered nailing down Jazz’s whereabouts at the time of the Nesposito murder to be a good day’s work.
I grabbed a barbecue sandwich at a Blake’s Lotaburger on Carlisle and took it home. Paul and Henry would be full of carnival food, meaning I was responsible for filling my own stomach today. They returned to the house midafternoon so Henry could collect his things and head back home. He intended to go by way of To’hajiilee to see if his brother and Klah surfaced. An hour after he left, he phoned to confirm what Gad told me that morning… no sign of either of the two men.
That evening while Paul was at the desk we’d set up for him in my home office, I realized how much he was affected by Jazz’s situation, because he’d said little about the fair. Normally he would have told me about the celebration in fine detail.
When we went to bed later to do a little reading before turning out the light—I was working on Skippy Dies by Paul Murray; he was perusing Dan Clowes’s Wilson—he turned to me and laid a hand on my arm. I realized anew how lucky I was to have that hand and the man attached to it.
“Vince….”
“Yeah?”
“Will you tel
l me something? And be honest about it?”
“Sure. And just to set the record straight, I only lie to my clients. Never to you.” That didn’t earn me a chuckle. This was serious.
“How do you really feel about Jazz?”
The question shook me a little. Paul was very secure… both in himself and in our domestic situation. “Judging from that query, I think the question should be how do you feel about Jazz?”
He went very still. “I only met the guy once. And that was three years ago. But I still remember him… vividly.”
I clasped the hand resting on my arm. “He’s that kind of guy. Once you see him, you never forget him. To answer your question, if I didn’t have you, I’d go after Jazz.”
He twitched. “I-I guess that’s the way I feel too. And that’s what scares me.”
“I know. But what you need to understand is that I’m content. I have who I want. How many people can honestly make that statement? Not as many as we think, I imagine.”
“But we’re still going to look for him, aren’t we? I mean, we gotta do that, right?”
“Absolutely. And we’ll find him. But neither of us can expect to find the old Jazz. He’s gone through a lot since we saw him last.”
“I hope it hasn’t turned him bitter.”
Paul made love to me then, incredibly gently at first, and then with an unexpected fierceness as our time drew near.
EARLY MONDAY morning, I managed to reach Lonzo Joe after I got to my downtown office. The San Juan County sheriff’s detective had already heard about Jazz’s situation with the Navajo cops. I told him about the timeline I’d worked up and asked him his opinion.
“You get it documented, and that oughta be enough to get the kid off the hot plate. At least as far as Nesposito’s death is concerned. You had any news about him?”
“Yeah. Found where he was, but he got chased away by that Albuquerque detective searching for him. Not sure where he’s headed. And if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. Don’t want to get you crossways with the tribal police until I get that time line nailed down and attested to.”
“Understand. I learn anything, I’ll pass it on.”
As we terminated the call, I heard the warning gong at the front door alerting me someone had entered the office. I heard Hazel greet whoever it was. A moment later, she stood in my doorway and announced Lieutenant Chester Bolton.
“BJ,” he boomed as he walked into my office. “I was in the building and thought I’d drop in to see how you’re doing.”
Yeah, right. The first time that ever happened. I tamped down the thought and told my paranoia to go back to its cubbyhole. “Lieutenant, good to see you. Have a seat.”
“Can’t stay,” he said, plopping his short, barrel-chested form into a chair. He was a man who fit a uniform well. His bars and badge seemed at home on his collar and left breast. The mat of graying hair at the open neck of his uniform shirt lent credence that a man’s man occupied my visitor’s chair. “Since I was already on your doorstep, just wanted to stop by and see if there was any news on that fellow you and Enriquez were looking for. Been some developments on our end, you know.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Know the Navajo police were looking for him to ask about a trafficker’s death. Don’t know of any other developments.”
“Detective Zimmerman’s looking for him in connection with some trafficking information he’s turned up.”
“What information?”
“Don’t know the details. But it’s possibly connected to those murders in that west-side motel.”
My stomach dropped through the floor, but I quelled the instinct to leap to Jazz’s defense. “Haven’t heard much about that case since all the publicity died away.” I kept my voice steady. “Any solid leads?”
“Just the Penrod kid.”
He closed his mouth and seemed to wait expectantly. The guy was baiting me. Why?
“Thought you should know APD’s getting serious about finding the man. Just in case he contacts you,” Bolton finally added.
I tumbled to the message he was delivering. “You don’t seriously think that kid had anything to do with murdering ten people at the My Other Home Motel, do you?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Why not? You say he was kidnapped. Word on the street is he escaped and went looking for revenge.” He eyed me steadily. “Course, he’d probably need help killing ten individuals at one sitting. You know, someone to hold them in place while he did the killing.”
A cloak of dread settled over my shoulders. “Are you saying his brother helped him out?”
“Henry Secatero’s got a rap sheet in Farmington and on the reservation.”
“Yeah, drinking and fighting. But not murder.”
“But that shows a propensity to violence, and you never know what a man’ll do when someone bangs his brother. Hear the Penrod kid’s queer, but not Secatero.”
Once convinced he would not get a rise out of me, he leaned back in his chair and brushed thinning gray hair. “Why are you looking for Penrod?”
“Because his family reached out and asked for help when Jazz disappeared. That’s what I do, help people out.”
“Yeah. If they can pay the tab.” He thumbed his nose. “Having trouble figuring out which side of this thing you’re on, Vinson.”
My back prickled. “What do you mean?”
“You know as well as I do that a trafficking operation like that needs protection. Who better than a private detective with connections to the police department? A lot of cops know you from your time on the force, including your last riding partner. That gives you insight. Knowledge. I remember you out at that sleazy motel going through the place looking at bodies. And you’re trying awfully hard to find the guy who we believe executed them.”
I spoke through clinched teeth. “Get your story straight, Lieutenant Bolton. The man helping me find him is the brother you claim was the other shooter.”
“Oh, my story’s straight. Let’s just suppose things were getting out of hand and you needed to shut the door behind you. You get a couple of Navajos to do it for you, but one goes off the reservation—so to speak—and you have to find him.”
“And do what?” I asked.
“Shut another door. Does Secatero know you intend to kill him too?”
“And just what makes you think I’m the man providing protection to a bunch of human traffickers?”
“Word around town is that you’re loaded. Didn’t come from being a cop. Probably not from a rinky-dink PI operation either.”
“The word on the street is right.”
“Around twelve mil is what I hear.”
“Right ballpark. But there are a number of solid citizens who know I inherited that from my parents. Have the documents to prove it. Years’ worth of documents.”
“And where did two schoolteachers come up with that kinda money?”
“Invested in Microsoft before it was Microsoft,” I said. “And there are plenty of documents to support that as well.”
“I’ll just bet there are.” Bolton heaved his solid bulk out of the chair and clapped his billed uniform hat on his head. “Nice talking to you.”
My fingers shook with rage as I reached for the small digital recorder sitting on my desk. I’d thumbed it on the moment Hazel told me Bolton was here to see me. Now I spoke a few words attesting to the speakers and the circumstances of the recording. That done, I called Gene and arranged to meet him somewhere neutral, cautioning him to watch for a tail as he left the headquarters building.
GENE FLUSHED in varying shades of anger as he listened to Bolton’s taped voice. At the end, he flicked off the machine and looked at me. “What’s this guy trying to do?”
“In my opinion, he’s doing two things. Covering his own butt and doing the bidding of Silver Wings.”
Gene snorted. “Hell, he could be Silver Wings.”
“The hair he’s got left is gray, all right, but you can hardly claim he’s got silver wings. Or at least
what I think of as silver wings.”
“But we do know somebody who does. Somebody close to Bolton.”
I fingered an itchy earlobe. “Two somebodies that I can think of right off the bat. The Haldemain brothers. But I can add a couple of others to the list, including the chief of police. In the meantime, what do we do about his accusations?”
“Insinuations,” he corrected.
“Sounded like an accusation to me.”
“That’s because you’re taking it personally.”
I choked first and then burst out laughing. “Guess I was, at that.”
“Think it’s time I go to my rabbi and see what’s going on.”
Gene’s rabbi was the current police chief. Going to him was akin to taking a parking ticket to the Chief Justice of the New Mexico Supreme Court, but it was his call.
“I’ll need your recording,” he added as he slipped the recorder into his pocket.
“Make sure I get it back.”
Gene left, but I paused to pay the bill and wonder what the hell was coming down the pike next.
Chapter 30
GENE DIDN’T call me Tuesday morning, so I was left to wonder if he’d been able to talk to the chief. Charlie had a good head on his shoulders, so I called him into my office and shared Bolton’s insinuations. I finished the telling with “For God’s sake, don’t tell Hazel.”
“She’ll find out sooner or later,” he said.
“Yes, but by later, maybe we’ll have headed this off at the pass.”
He just grunted. “What do you intend to do about the situation?”
“I’ll take my cues from Gene after he talks to the chief.”
“That might put pressure on, not take it off. Talking to the chief, I mean.”
“Possibly, but for the moment, we’ll go on like usual.”
“Yeah, right. Nothing on Jazz yet?”
“No, but I’m heading out to the Hatahle camp in a few minutes. I want to start documenting his presence at To’hajiilee during the murder of Nesposito.”
