Manzanares chuckled without humor. “My dad always said there were two kinds of family members—in-laws and outlaws. My cousin died—drowned, actually—before he could divorce her. The investigation determined his death was an accident, but I don’t buy it. Merilee got everything he’d worked hard for. So, no, I’ll let the incident commander—”
Bernie felt her pocket vibrate and held up a hand. “Hold on a minute.” She reached for her phone.
But Manzanares walked away. “I’m outta here. Stay or go, your choice.”
She heard him start his unit as she looked at the caller ID, hoping it was Chee, but instead read rose cooper on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Bernie, are the searchers there?”
“Not yet. The state policeman called the incident commander and she will arrive in a few minutes. He asked me to wait to give her the basics, so I will.”
“I knew I could count on you. I’m sorry you didn’t get to give your talk. I know the girls would have loved it.”
“I’m glad I could help in a different way.” And she meant it.
4
When he agreed to go to the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy in Santa Fe for the training, Jim Chee hadn’t dwelled on the downside. He liked learning more about the work he loved. Even though it took about three and a half hours to drive from his home in Shiprock to New Mexico’s state capital, he’d been eager to come for this class on the Amber and Silver Alert systems. The Navajo Nation had suffered a heartbreaking incident in which two children were abducted on their way home from school. The kidnapper freed the little boy, leaving him alone in the darkness far, far from home. But his eleven-year-old sister was raped and killed. The situation called attention to the lack of an Amber Alert system on the Navajo Nation, and since then, the tribe and the Arizona Department of Public Safety had worked hard to put such a warning system in place.
The downside? First, he was away from Bernie because he had to be in Santa Fe by 8:00 a.m., and the department authorized a couple nights in a hotel. But then, because he was in Santa Fe anyway, the captain suggested that he spend some more time and take another course—the dreaded legal updates. Chee respectfully argued against the class to save the department a third night’s lodging, but hierarchy prevailed. The extra night far from home did give him more time to check on Darleen and to see what he thought of the art school that seemed to be interested in her.
During a break in the first day’s class, an officer he knew from Farmington came up to chat. “Hey, have you met our new FBI person?”
“Not yet,” Chee said. “You?”
“No, but I heard it’s a woman from California.” The deputy rubbed his shaved head. “I wonder how bad she screwed up to get sent to the Four Corners.”
Chee laughed. “Maybe she’s a newbie.”
“We’ll get to show her how things work out here in cowboy-and-Indian country. I kinda miss Cordova, but no surprise that he left. The agency wanted him for bigger things. The guy had too much ambition to stay in the boonies. Not like us, huh?” He gave Chee a playful punch in the arm and went outside with an unlit cigarette.
It depends, Chee thought, on what you’re after. He’d had offers to move away from Dinétah to places where he could earn a higher salary, even an invitation to apply to the FBI. But to live on the land between the four sacred mountains meant more to him than money. His relatives had survived the Long Walk, endured the hard days of incarceration and starvation at Hweeldi. They came back to start over with a few sheep and the deep relief of being in the place the Holy People had given them. For all its challenges, this harsh, breathtaking landscape would always be his home.
The vibration of his cell phone disrupted his thoughts. Captain Largo sounded slightly apologetic. “I have a little something I’d like you to check on. It’s probably nothing, but Wilson Sam brought it up. I figured since you were already there in Santa Fe, you could help us out.”
Wilson Sam was new on the Navajo police force. A rookie. “What’s the story?”
“I want you to talk to a woman at Tesuque Pueblo, that’s just north of there. Ask a couple questions. That’s it. I don’t have her exact address or phone number.” Largo gave him the number of the pueblo governor’s office, where Chee should be able to get her contact information. “The woman, Caitlyn Vigil, is married to a Navajo man, George Curley. George’s mom hasn’t heard from him for about two weeks. She assumes her son has gone back to his wife, but Curley’s phone is disconnected. Could you tell the guy to call his mother, Mrs. Curley, before she heads to Tesuque herself and makes a big stink?”
Chee shifted his weight from toe to heel and back again. “I gather Mrs. Curley and Caitlyn Vigil don’t get along.”
“Right. It’s the old conflict. Mothers wanting their son to marry a Navajo girl so their grandchildren will be raised the Navajo way. Since those two don’t have any kids yet, George’s mama thinks there’s time for him to leave Caitlyn and find someone else. They separated last year, and George moved back to Navajoland. But they reconciled. He told Deborah, that’s his mom, that he wanted Caitlyn to move out of the pueblo and into a house with him, but her mother, Mrs. Vigil, was giving them all kinds of grief.” Largo stopped. “Yeah, that’s more than you need to know, but it gives you some insight.”
“So are Mrs. Curley and George related to the rookie? Is that why he’s so interested in this?”
“No. Deborah Curley was Wilson Sam’s math teacher in high school.”
“Captain, I can drive out after lunch, but I’ll have to miss the second part of that legal-update course.”
Largo chuckled. “I don’t think so, but good try. Go after class today or tomorrow. Let me know what you learn so I can pass it along to Sam.”
“Tell the rookie he owes me a favor.”
When the class recessed at noon, Chee joined some other cops for lunch at a restaurant known for its good barbecue. After he ordered the green chile brisket with corn bread and a salad, he headed to the men’s room. Two men stood in the lobby, paying their bill.
“Yá’át’ééh,” the heavy Navajo with a tattoo on his neck called to him. “They let you out of Shiprock, huh?” There was anger in the man’s deep, gravelly voice. His companion, a younger Navajo, stared at the floor. Chee read embarrassment in his body language. Something about him was familiar, too.
“Yá’át’ééh.” Chee remembered the older man, a person he had arrested for beating his wife with a vodka bottle and kicking her hard enough to crack her ribs. Last he’d heard, Clyde Herbert was in prison. “How are you doing?”
Herbert moved to block Chee’s passage. “Real fine, boss.” Chee smelled onions on his breath. “My old lady, too.” He gave Chee a smirk. “I didn’t see your green-and-white in the parking lot. You get fired or somethin’?”
“I’m here taking classes so I’ll know how to deal better with people like you.” The big man grunted and then moved away from Chee, pushing the restaurant’s heavy exit door open. The younger man followed him, keeping his head down.
Chee called after him. “Hey there, aren’t you Darleen’s friend?”
The man ignored him. The guy had a funny name, BS or something like that. Chee remembered talking to him in Tuba City. And that he was with Darleen at the time.
A steaming cup of coffee had arrived when Chee returned to the group at the table. The waitress was delivering a basket of chips and a bowl of chile con queso to dip them in. “We like having you guys around, so this is on me.” She gave them a smile. “Spread the word, OK?”
The Farmington officer turned to Chee. “You look like you ran into an angry old girlfriend, or a buddy you owe some money to. Or got confused by those unisex bathroom signs they use in Santa Fe.”
The conversation turned to the class they were taking. An African American officer at the table, a classmate from the eastern part of the state, was especially enthusiastic.
“If I had realized how much interesting, complicated le
gal stuff I’d have to know as a cop, I would have gone to law school.”
“I can’t see you as a lawyer, buddy. You have a low tolerance for official bull.”
“And people hate lawyers even more than cops,” someone else chimed in.
“Go ahead and joke, but I’m considering it. I’m checking to see if I can find a grant or something to help with tuition. After some of the prosecution screwups I’ve seen, I think I could do better at getting these guys put away—even without going to school.”
The man turned to Chee. “Hey, you’re with the Navajo PD. Did you ever hear of a Lieutenant Staghorn? He was with that department for a long time. He knew a lot about the law.”
Chee smiled. “You mean Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn?”
“That’s him.”
“I worked with him.”
“What was that like?”
Chee paused. “He was one of the smartest cops I’ve ever met. He knows how to think his way around a problem, how to connect the dots. He’s doing consulting work with the department now, and he’s still as sharp as ever.”
Another officer nodded. “He came up to consult with us on something when I was new on the force. I remember thinking he seemed like a bright guy, but someone who wouldn’t be easy to work with. Is that right, Chee?”
“I respect the man, and he taught me a lot.” And then, saving him from going into more details, the food arrived.
The banter continued while they ate. Like Chee, several of the officers were staying in Santa Fe for classes the next day, and they talked about getting together later for a beer and a burger and to watch football on TV.
“I might come by, but I promised my wife I’d look in on her sister. She’s taking an art course up here this week.”
The Farmington cop said, “You mean Darleen?”
“The one and only.”
“How’s that girl doing?”
Chee considered his answer. “Better. She’d stopped drinking last time I saw her. She’s looking at a school here.”
“Santa Fe is a lot bigger than Shiprock. Maybe that would be a good thing. Get away from home, make some new friends, give her some confidence.”
“She’s got confidence.” Chee reached for a chip. “What she’s lacking is common sense.”
The mention of Darleen’s friends brought the rude young man into focus. Chee remembered his name, CS, short for Clayton Secody, the guy who said he made videos. His first impression, when they met in Tuba City, had been positive. Why had the man acted like a jerk today? Why was he hanging with a convicted felon?
The afternoon training session focused on changes in the law regarding stopping suspects for probable cause, search and seizure, and more. Chee took notes to reinforce the information and to help himself stay awake. He knew the material was important. Chee’s responsibilities were influenced not only by the rules of the US Supreme Court but also by the Navajo Nation’s own code and by the relationship of tribal law enforcement to the states of New Mexico and Arizona, the BIA, FBI, and an alphabet soup of other agencies.
When the class ended, he walked to the parking lot and stood by his truck. The cool air was clear and crisp. People complained about the changes growth had brought to Santa Fe, but he enjoyed the view of the Jemez Mountains, the Sangre de Cristos, and the Sandias rising against the dome of blue sky. As long as people could see that, how bad could life here be?
Just when he had decided to drive to Tesuque, his phone buzzed with a text.
He had offered to pick up Darleen at the school campus after his training and take her to dinner. She was texting that she had to finish a project and would catch a ride to meet him at a restaurant she liked: CU @ 7?
OK, he typed back. The delay gave him a bit of extra time to follow up on the favor for the rookie.
No matter how good the class, being cooped up in a room with no windows for hours made him restless. He was glad to be free. He took the bypass to US 85 and got off at the exit for the pueblo. He didn’t see the governor’s office, so he stopped at the community center and spoke to the receptionist after showing her his credentials.
“Caitlyn Vigil?” The receptionist gave him a puzzled look. “She’s never been one to get in trouble.”
“She’s not in trouble. Someone in my office back in Shiprock is friendly with an elderly lady who knows Caitlyn. He asked me to stop by to say hello while I’m in Santa Fe taking a class.”
Despite a universe of differences, the Pueblo people and the Navajo share an attitude of respect for their elders.
“I’ll tell you where she lives. Tell her hello from Vangie, too.” The young woman’s grin showed her braces.
The directions eventually led him to a sprawling house under a large cottonwood tree. None of the homes had numbers, and none of the streets had street signs. Not much different from the Nation, except that Tesuque Pueblo included about five hundred members, and the Navajo Nation spread over three states, with a population five hundred times larger.
A blue Volvo station wagon from the 1970s with a yellow daisy fastened to the antenna with duct tape was parked outside. He knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. He tried again, listening for someone stirring, and looked around to see if any curious neighbors had spotted him. The place seemed deserted except for some ravens sitting in the dormant trees. Even the birds looked cold.
He went back to his truck, found some paper, and wrote a note asking Caitlyn to call him on his cell phone. He added a line he thought might get her attention and slipped the sheet and his business card into a crack in the frame.
As he was leaving, he heard a door open toward the rear of the house, and an old woman called out in a language he didn’t understand.
He turned toward her, and she studied his face. “I thought you were Curley. I thought that Navajo had finally gotten a real job. But you’re too big. He’s a pipsqueak.” She spoke in English.
“I’m not Curley,” Chee said, “but I’d like to talk to him. Or to his wife. Is this where they live?”
The woman said nothing.
“They aren’t in trouble. No, ma’am. Not at all. A friendly visit.”
“Then you got the right house.”
“I left a note there.” He indicated the front door with a twist of his head. “If you see them, could you tell them I’d like to talk to them for just a minute or two?”
“I can’t.”
Chee waited.
“I don’t know your name. Whatsa matter with you?”
He introduced himself. Because she wasn’t Navajo, he didn’t name his clans. Because she was an elder and a Pueblo Indian person, he knew she would care more about where he came from than what he did. But, after talking about his family, he added that he had been in training as a hataali and mentioned his rank as a sergeant with the Navajo Police. He told her he lived in Shiprock and a little about Bernie.
“I am Mrs. Vigil. If you want to talk to my daughter, you can call her in Santa Fe. She works at the Land Office.”
“What about her husband?”
“She never should have married him.”
And before Chee could ask if she’d seen the man, Mrs. Vigil disappeared behind a closed door.
Knowing the offices at the state capitol had closed at 5:00 p.m., Chee decided to call later and drove to the restaurant Darleen had suggested. The Pantry, across the street and down a few blocks from the Indian Hospital, looked as welcoming, unpretentious, and well stocked as its name. He parked in the paved lot behind the building, and as he headed toward the entrance, he noticed the bus stop bench down the street. So Darleen had figured out how to take the Santa Fe buses. She hadn’t had much practice doing that in Toadlena or Shiprock because there were no public buses except for the big yellow school buses and the Navajo Transportation line that took people to Window Rock if they didn’t mind leaving around 5:00 a.m. Back home, everyone he knew drove, caught a ride, or walked.
It was another fifteen minutes before the bus pulled u
p. Darleen wasn’t on it.
He dialed her number.
When she answered, he heard the strain in her voice. “I was about to call you. I missed the bus, but I guess you know that. I thought CS could give me a ride but, well, that didn’t work.” She’d left her car at Mama’s house because information the school sent highly recommended that students in Darleen’s program not bring vehicles to campus.
“What if I come pick you up?”
“Are you driving a police car?”
“No, my truck, but I’m still in uniform.”
A pause, and then, “I’ll wait for you by the main entrance. Let me know when you get close.”
Chee had never been to the Institute of American Indian Arts campus before, but he found it easily. The location, away from town and south of a development of new, earth-colored homes, surprised him. He liked the modern look of the campus and, especially, the mountain views that formed its backdrop.
As he pulled up, Darleen wobbled her way toward the passenger door, and he wondered if she had been drinking again. He reached over to open it for her.
“Why don’t you take off your sunglasses? You don’t need them now.”
“Right.” She closed the door and then put her sunglasses on her lap. Even in the dim light inside the vehicle, he noticed the tears. He handed her a napkin from the side panel pocket.
“You wanna talk about it?”
When something upset Bernie, his dear wife didn’t want to talk about whatever had happened—or at least she didn’t want to talk about it right then, and to him. Hours later, she’d matter-of-factly tell him someone she knew had been diagnosed with a terrible disease, or lost her job, or that she had rearrested a suspect she thought had cleaned up his act. The only variation in the way Bernie handled bad news came if the problem was something she thought he could help with. In that case, he’d watch her put emotions aside, activate her logical brain, and enlist him to work with her to resolve the issue. By then she had usually conjured up an assortment of possible solutions, and she’d listen to his opinion on each one. He loved her take-charge attitude, but sometimes he wished she could be a little more vulnerable, more open to sharing.
Cave of Bones Page 6
