The Fallen Man jlajc-12

by Tony Hillerman

  The gale was blowing Begayaye back toward him.

  “Jim,” he said. “I forgot. The wife made a dental appointment for me today. How about me switching assignments with Bernie? That Deer kid isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Well,” Chee said. Across the parking lot he saw Bernie Manuelito standing on the sheltered side of his patrol car, watching them.

  “Is it okay with Manuelito?”

  “Yes, sir,” Begayaye said. “She don’t mind.”

  “By the way,” Chee said, “I forgot to thank you guys for sending me those flowers.” Begayaye looked puzzled. “Flowers? What flowers?”

  Thus it was that Acting Lieutenant Jim Chee headed north toward the Colorado border leaning his good shoulder against the passenger-side door with Officer Bernadette Manuelito behind the wheel. Chee, being a detective, had figured out who had sent him the flowers. Begayaye hadn’t done it, and Bai would never think of doing such a thing even if he was fond of Chee—which Chee was pretty sure he wasn’t. That left Deejay Hondo and Bernie. Which clearly meant Bernie had sent them and made it look like everybody did it so he wouldn’t think she was buttering him up. That probably meant she liked him. Thinking back, he could 71 of 102

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  remember a couple of other signs that pointed to that conclusion.

  All things considered, he liked her, too. She was really smart, she was sweet to everybody around the office, and she was always using her days off to take care of an apparently inexhaustible supply of ailing and indigent kinfolks, which gave her a high score on the Navajo value scale. When the time came he would have to give her a good efficiency rating. He gave her a sidewise glance, saw her staring unblinkingly through the windshield at the worn pavement of infamous U.S. Highway 666. A very slight smile curved the corner of her lip, making her look happy, as she usually was. No doubt about it, she really was an awfully pretty young woman.

  That wasn’t the way he should be thinking about Officer Bernadette Manuelito. Not only was he her superior officer and supervisor, he was more or less engaged to marry another woman. And he was thinking that way, most likely, because he was having a very confusing problem with that other woman. He was beginning to suspect that she didn’t really want to marry him. Or, at least, he wasn’t sure she was willing to marry Jim Chee as he currently existed—a just-plain cop and a genuine sheep-camp Navajo as opposed to the more romantic and politically correct Indigenous Person. Making it worse, he didn’t know what the hell to do about it. Or whether he should do anything. It was a sad, sad situation.

  Chee sighed, decided the ribs would feel better if he shifted his weight. He did it, sucked in his breath, and grimaced.

  “You all right?” Bernie asked, giving him a worried look.

  “Okay,” Chee said.

  “I have some aspirin in my stuff.”

  “No problem,” Chee said.

  Bernie drove in silence for a while.

  “Lieutenant,” she said. “Do you remember telling us how Lieutenant Leaphorn was always trying to get you to look for patterns? I mean when you had something going on that was hard to figure out.”

  “Yeah,” Chee said.

  “And that’s what you wanted me to try to find in this cattle-stealing business?” Chee grunted, trying to remember if he had made any such suggestion.

  “Well, I got Lucy Sam to let me take that ledger to that Quik-Copy place in Farmington and I got copies made of the pages back for several years so I’d have them. And then I went through our complaint records and copied down the dates of all the cattle-theft reports for the same years.”

  “Good Lord,” Chee said, visualizing the time that would take. “Who was doing your regular work for you?”

  “Just the multiple-head thefts,” Officer Manuelito said, defensively. “The ones which look sort of professional. And I did it in the evenings.”

  “Oh,” Chee said, embarrassed.

  “Anyway, I started comparing the dates. You know, when Mr. Sam would write down something about a certain sort of truck, and when there would be a cattle theft reported in our part of the reservation.” Officer Manuelito had been reciting this very carefully, as if she had rehearsed it. Now she stopped.

  “What’d you notice?”

  She produced a deprecatory laugh. “I think this is probably really silly,” she said.

  “I doubt it,” Chee said, thinking he would like to get his mind off of Janet Pete and quit trying to find a way to turn back the clock and make things the way they used to be. “Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me about it.”

  “There was a correlation between multiple-theft reports and Mr. Sam seeing a big banged-up dirty white camper truck in the neighborhood,” Manuelito said, looking fixedly at the highway center stripe. “Not all the time,” she added. “But often enough so it made you begin to wonder about it.”

  Chee digested this. “The trailer like Mr. Finch’s rig?” he said. “The New Mexico brand inspector’s camper?”

  “Yes, sir.” She laughed again. “I said it was probably silly.”

  “Well, I guess our theft reports would be passed along to him. Then he’d come out here to see about it.” Officer Manuelito kept her eyes on the road, her lips opened as if she were about to say something. But she didn’t. She simply looked disappointed.

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  “Wait a minute,” Chee said, as understanding belatedly dawned. “Was Hosteen Sam seeing Finch’s trailer after the thefts were reported? Or—”

  “Usually before,” Bernie said. “Sometimes both, but usually before. But you know how that is. Sometimes the cattle are gone for a while before the owner notices they’re missing.”

  Bernie drove, looking very tense. Chee digested what she’d told him. Suddenly he slammed his right hand against his leg. “How about that?” he said. “That wily old devil.”

  Officer Manuelito relaxed, grinned. “You think so? You think that might be right?”

  “I’d bet on it,” Chee said. “He’d have everything going for him. All the proper legal forms for moving cattle. All the brand information. All the reasons for being where the cattle are. And all cops would know him as one of them. Perfect.” Bernie was grinning even wider, delighted. “Yes,” she said. “That’s sort of what I was thinking.”

  “Now we need to find out how he markets them. And how he gets them from the pasture to the feedlots.”

  “I think it’s in the trailer,” Bernie said.

  “The trailer? You mean he hauls cattle in his house trailer?”

  Chee’s incredulous tone caused Bernie to flush slightly. “I think so,” she said. “I couldn’t prove it.” A few moments ago Acting Lieutenant Chee might have scoffed at this remarkable idea. But not now. “Tell me,” he said. “How does he get them through the door?”

  “It took me a long time to get the idea,” she said. “I think it was noticing that now and then I’d see that trailer parked at the Anasazi Inn at Farmington, and I’d think it was funny that you’d drive that big clumsy camper trailer around if you didn’t want to sleep in it.

  I thought, you know, well, maybe he just wants a hot bath, or something like that. But it stuck in my mind.” She laughed. “I’m always trying to understand white people.”

  “Yeah,” Chee said. “Me too.”

  “So the other day when he parked the trailer in the lot at the station, when I walked past it I noticed how it smelled.”

  “A little whiff of cow manure,” said Chee, who had walked behind it, too. “I just thought, you know, he’s around feedlots all the time. Stepping in the stuff. Probably gets used to it. Doesn’t clean his boots.”

  “That occurred to me, too,” Bernie said. “But it was pretty strong. Maybe women are more sensit
ive to smells.” Or smarter, Chee thought. “Did you look inside?”

  “He’s got all the windows all stuck full of those tourist stickers, and they’re high windows. I tried to take a peek but I didn’t want him to see me snooping.”

  “I guess we could get a search warrant,” Chee said. “What would you put on the petition? Something about the brand inspector’s camper smelling like cow manure, to which the judge would say ‘Naturally,’ and about Finch not liking to sleep in it, which would cause the judge to say ‘Not if it smells like cow manure.’”

  “I thought about the search warrant,” Bernie said. “Of course there’s no law against hauling cows in your camper if you want to.”

  “True,” Chee said. “Might be able to get him committed for being crazy.”

  “Anyway,” Bernie said. “I called his office and I—”

  “You what!”

  “I just wanted to know where he was. If he answered I was going to hang up. If he didn’t, I’d ask ’em where I could find him. He wasn’t there, and the secretary said he’d called in from the Davis and Sons cattle-auction place over by Iyanbito. So I drove over there and his camper truck was parked by the barn and he was out in back with some people loading up steers. So I got a closer look.”

  “You didn’t break in?” Chee asked, thinking she’d probably say she had. Nothing this woman did was going to surprise him anymore.

  She glanced at him, looking hurt, and ignored the question.

  “Maybe you noticed that camper has just a straight-up flat back. There’s no door in it and no window. Well, all around that back panel it’s sealed up with silvery duct tape. Like you’d maybe put on to keep the dust out. But when you get down and look under you can see a row of big, heavy-duty hinges.”

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  Chee was into this now. “So you back your trailer up to the fence, pull off the duct tape, lower the back down, and that makes a loading ramp out of it. He probably has it rigged up with stalls to keep ’em from moving around.”

  “I guessed it would handle about six,” Bernie said. “Two rows of cows, three abreast.”

  “Bernie,” Chee said. “If my ribs weren’t so sore, and it wasn’t going to get me charged with sexual harassment and cause us to run off the road, I would reach over there and give you a huge congratulatory hug.” Bernie looked both pleased and embarrassed.

  “You put a lot of work into this,” he said. “And a lot of thought, too. Way beyond the call of duty.”

  “Well, I’m trying to learn to be a detective. And it got sort of personal, too,” she said. “I don’t like that man.”

  “I don’t much either,” Chee said. “He’s arrogant.”

  “He sort of made a move on me,” she said. “Maybe not. Not exactly.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, he gives you that ‘doll’ and ‘cute’ stuff, you know. Then he said how would I like to get assigned to work with him. But of course he said ‘under’ him. He said I could be Tonto to his Lone Ranger.”

  “Tonto?” Chee said. “Well, now. Here’s what we do. We keep an eye on him. And when he’s on the road with a load, we nail him.

  And when we do, you’re the one who gets to put the handcuffs on him.” 25

  WHEN OFFICER BERNADETTE MANUELITO

  parked Chee’s patrol car at the Lazy B ranch Elisa Breedlove was standing in the doorway awaiting them—hugging herself against the cold wind. Or was it, Chee thought, against the news he might be bringing?

  “Four Corners weather,” she said. “Yesterday it was sunny, mild autumn. Today it’s winter.” She ushered them into the living room, exchanged introductions gracefully with Bernie, expressed the proper dismay at Chee’s condition, wished him a quick recovery, and invited them to be seated.

  “I saw the story about you being shot on television,” she said. “Bad as you look, they made it sound even worse.”

  “Just some cracked ribs,” Chee said.

  “And old Mr. Maryboy being killed. I only met him once, but he was very nice to us. He invited us in and offered to make coffee.”

  “When was that?”

  “Way back in the dark ages,” she said. “When Hal and George would come out for the summer and Eldon and I would go climbing with them.”

  “Is your brother here now?” Chee asked. “I was hoping to talk to you both.”

  “He was here earlier, but one of the mares got herself tangled up in a fence. He went out to see about her. There’s supposed to be a snowstorm moving in and he wanted to get her into the barn.”

  “Do you expect him back soon?”

  “She’s up in the north pasture,” Elisa said. “But he shouldn’t be long unless she’s cut so badly he had to go into Mancos and get the vet. Would you two care for something to drink? It’s a long drive up here from Shiprock.” She served them both coffee but poured none for herself. Chee sipped and watched her over the rim, twisting her hands. If she had been one of the three climbers that day, if she had reached the top, she should know what was coming now. He took out the folder of photographs and handed Elisa the one signed with her husband’s name.

  “Thanks,” she said, and looked at it. Officer Manuelito was watching her, sitting primly on the edge of her chair, cup in saucer, uncharacteristically quiet. It occurred to Chee that she looked like a pretty girl pretending to be a cop.

  Elisa was frowning at the photograph. “It’s a picture of the page from the climbers’ ledger,” she said slowly. “But where—” She dropped the picture on the coffee table, said, “Oh, God,” in a strangled voice, and covered her face with her hands.

  Officer Manuelito leaned forward, lips apart. Chee shook his head, signaled silence.

  Elisa picked up the picture again, stared at it, dropped it to the floor and sat rigid, her face white.

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  “Mrs. Breedlove,” Chee said. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. Shuddered. Composed herself, looked at Chee.

  “This photograph. That’s all there was on the page?”

  “Just what you saw.”

  She bent, picked up the print, looked at it again. “And the date. The date. That’s what was written?”

  “Just as you see it,” Chee said.

  “But of course it was.” She produced a laugh on the razor edge of hysteria. “A silly question. But it’s wrong, you know. It should have been—but why—” She put her hand over her mouth, dropped her head.

  The noise the wind was making—rattles, whistles, and howls—filtered through windows and walls and filled the dark room with the sounds of winter.

  “I know the date’s wrong,” Chee said. “The entry is dated September thirty. That’s a week after your husband disappeared from Canyon de Chelly. What should—” He stopped. Elisa wasn’t listening to him. She was lost in her own memory. And that, combined with what the picture had told her, was drawing her to some ghastly conclusion.

  “The handwriting,” she said. “Have you—” But she cut that off, too, pressed her lips together as if to keep them from completing the question.

  But not soon enough, of course. So she hadn’t known what had happened on the summit of Ship Rock. Not until moments ago when the forgery of her husband’s signature told her. Told her exactly what? That her husband had died before he’d had a chance to sign.

  That her husband’s death, therefore, must have been preplanned as well as postdated. The pattern Leaphorn had taught him to look for took its almost final dismal shape. And filled Jim Chee with pity.

  Officer Manuelito was on her feet.

  “Mrs. Breedlove, you need to lie down,” she said. “You’re sick. Let me get you something. Some water.” Elisa sagged forward, lea
ned her forehead against the table. Officer Manuelito hurried into the kitchen.

  “We haven’t checked the handwriting yet,” Chee said. “Can you tell us what that will show?” Elisa was sobbing now. Bernie emerged from the kitchen, glass of water in one hand, cloth in the other. She gave Chee a “How could you do this?” look and sat next to Elisa, patting her shoulder.

  “Take a sip of water,” Bernie said. “And you should lie down until you feel better. We can finish this later.” Ramona appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a padded coat, her face red with cold. She watched them anxiously. “What are you doing to her?” she said. “Go away now and let her rest.”

  “Oh, God,” Elisa said, her voice muffled by the table. “Why did he think he had to do it?”

  “Where can I find Eldon?” Chee asked.

  Elisa shook her head.

  “Does he have a rifle?” But of course he would have a rifle. Every male over about twelve in the Rocky Mountain West had a rifle.

  “Where does he keep it?”

  Elisa didn’t respond. Chee motioned to Bernie. She left in search of it.

  Elisa raised her head, wiped her eyes, looked at Chee. “It was an accident, you know. Hal was always reckless. He wanted to rappel down the cliff. I thought I had talked him out of it. But I guess I hadn’t.”

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “I didn’t get all the way to the top. I was below. Waiting for them to come down.” Chee hesitated. The next question would be crucial, but should he ask it now, with this woman overcome by shock and grief? Any lawyer would tell her not to talk about any of this. But she wouldn’t be the one on trial.