The Death of Blue Mountain Cat

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Just for a second, Kent’s face fell. Gotcha! Then he pasted his public-offering smile back in place.

  Thinnes walked around the car, and Oster sidled up to the lawyer. “Don’t mind my partner,” he said, too fast and too loud. He lowered his voice to add, “He must’a got up on the wrong side of the wife this morning.”

  Thinnes wasn’t supposed to have heard that.

  “I think it’s a beautiful car.” Oster patted it with all the appreciation of a luxury-car salesman.

  That was how it was done, how the game was played. Mutt and Jeff. Good cop, bad cop. Even big-shot lawyers who were expecting it didn’t recognize all the variations.

  Kent waited to get even until they were inside the building, crammed into one of District Nineteen’s tiny interview rooms. When they’d taken off their coats, Thinnes studied the lawyer while Oster went to get coffee. Kent wore contacts. His coat, suit, and smile were as expensive as his car. And given his age and the absence of wrinkles, he must’ve had a face-lift. Thinnes wasn’t impressed.

  When Oster came back, Kent said, “I ought to file a complaint.”

  Oster made it a point to look hurt, though Thinnes figured he didn’t have a clue, either, about what Kent was talking about. Thinnes crossed his hands over his chest, tucking his fingers into his armpits. He hitched one hip up on the edge of the table, so he was half sitting, half leaning over Kent. “Is that so? What for?”

  “My wife told me you dragged her in here and interrogated her.”

  Yesterday. “And you rushed right over here to defend her honor.” Before Kent could blow his stack over that crack, Thinnes went on. “No, Mr. Kent. We didn’t interrogate your wife. We asked her to come here and answer some questions to help us find out who killed your partner. And we interviewed her. We only interrogate people we’re reasonably sure did something wrong.”

  “She said you accused her of having an affair with David.”

  “I asked her if she’d had an affair.” Close enough to what he’d actually asked.

  “How dare you?”

  “Come off it. You may not be the world’s greatest mouthpiece, Counselor, but you know how the game’s played.”

  “And you know I’ve got the connections to make your life miserable.”

  “Okay. Now that we’ve gotten the strutting and posing out of the way, let’s get to the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “You didn’t share Bisti’s feelings about Harrison Wingate, did you?”

  Kent seemed surprised. “What are you trying to say?”

  It was a bit sudden change of direction. “You were seen yucking it up with him at the museum that night. It doesn’t quite jive with the little scene Wingate played with Bisti just before he died.”

  “Well, some of that was just hype. You know—David’s shtick. It’s every artist’s fervent hope he’ll be banned in Boston. Or denounced by anyone with a following, any place with an active media.”

  “You saying he staged the fight with Wingate?”

  “No. Of course not. But I wouldn’t have put it past him to have done the installation, then invited Wingate just for the free publicity Wingate’s reaction would generate.”

  “You tell that to Wingate?”

  “Why would I? He’s old enough to look out for himself.”

  “So, what were you talking about?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  It was a challenge. Prove it. With Bisti dead and Wingate as uncooperative as Kent, there wasn’t a thing Thinnes could do.

  “I think I’d like to leave, now,” Kent added. He turned to Oster. “Would you be good enough to fetch my coat?”

  “Nothin’ I’d like better,” Oster said. He made it sound like someone had just offered to take out the garbage.

  Kent turned back to Thinnes. “By the way, I did an inventory, yesterday, of the pieces we had at the museum. We’re missing an Anasazi bowl. Black and white. Indian designs. Andrews said your people took it. It’s worth a lot of money.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. Probably something close to what a cop makes in a year.”

  Thirty

  “Dr. Caleb,” Mrs. Sleighton’s voice said, over the intercom. “There’s a man here to see you, a reporter.”

  “What time is my next appointment?”

  “Two-thirty.”

  “Thank you. Send him in.”

  The reporter was more than six-feet tall and slender, black hair—over the collar but neatly trimmed, as were his beard and mustache—fine but masculine features. The faded irises of his eyes—the only color to him—were rimmed with slate blue. With his charcoal-gray suit and suede shoes, pearl-gray shirt, and gray paisley tie, he could have been a Dockers commercial for gray.

  “I’m Rick Patrick,” he said. “I’d like to do a feature on a hospice. I was told you’re the man to talk to about Spalding House.”

  Caleb recognized the signs of subtle interest and guessed Rick found him attractive but had no idea that Caleb was gay. And he could tell Patrick wasn’t the sort to risk a hostile encounter by propositioning a straight man.

  It would be easy enough to give him a sign, something noncommittal, that only someone who was looking would notice. But something—inertia? cowardice? maybe pragmatism—held him back. “I’m flattered,” he said, “but I’d prefer not to have the publicity. AIDS hospices are not popular with neighbors, and we’d rather not call attention—”

  “Isn’t that the sort of prejudice a favorable piece would fight?”

  “Our aim is to fight AIDS, not take on prejudice. I’m sorry…”

  Patrick handed him a business cared—also gray, with black lettering. Tasteful. “If you should change your mind, give me a call. Please.”

  Caleb nodded.

  “Thank you for your time, Doctor.” He didn’t seem to be indulging in any of the sulkiness people often display when their plans are thwarted. “I can see myself out.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Patrick.”

  This time Patrick nodded, then he left.

  Caleb used the intercom to ask Mrs. Sleighton to give him time to make a phone call before she sent in the next patient.

  He called his attorney. “I wonder if you could do a confidential background check,” he said, “on a freelance reporter who’s been asking about Spaulding House? Nothing too intrusive. Just what you usually do on a prospective employee.”

  “What do you know, so far?”

  “Just what he has on his business card.” Caleb read off the information. “And he’s young, he seems to have adequate manners, and excellent taste in clothes.”

  “I’ll see what I can come up with,” he said, and hung up.

  Caleb thought about Rick Patrick. He was certainly beautiful. And if he was successful as a writer, probably intelligent. Caleb’s problem was that he knew what he wanted in a relationship. He’d heard it summarized on one of those Channel-11-self-help-pledge-drive specials. Passion and Safety. He’d had it once—so long ago that the loss had almost stopped hurting—but he remembered. He knew where he wanted to be; he just didn’t know how to get there. How to find the one. Or someone who could be the one. He didn’t know how to make contact, to get past the awkwardness and misunderstanding that his training and intellect—not to mention experience—told him he would have to survive to end up where he needed to be. Most of the time it seemed one couldn’t get there from here.

  He got the results of the background check by 4:30—a message to call his attorney’s office ASAP. When he called, the lawyer told him, “Patrick got his undergraduate degree in journalism from Roosevelt and a masters from the University of Missouri. He works freelance as a reporter and feature writer, income’s probably a quarter of yours. I could get you the exact figure, if you like.”

  “Never mind. I just wanted to be sure that he has a salary and doesn’t have an arrest record.”

  “Oh, yes. A salary, a reputation for being tough but fair, and an apartme
nt in Hyde Park.”

  Thirty-One

  Native Artists was strategically located on Broadway, between the yuppie cash in Lincoln Park and the disposable income of New Town. Thinnes parked in the upstream end of a bus stop, put his OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS sign on the dash, and asked Oster, “What’ve we got on this woman?”

  Oster checked his notes. “Irene Yellow. Age thirty-four. Single. Address in Lincoln Park. Works at a tony gift shop belonging to her old man, Noah Hopewell.” He pointed at the store. “This one.”

  “Let’s see, one arrest for assault during an AIM meeting that got out of hand. Guy I talked to said he thought being in jail overnight must’ve put the fear of God in her, ’cause the only assault she’s done since then is of a verbal nature.”

  “Good. I didn’t wear my vest today.”

  The stuff displayed in Native Artist’s front window ranged from pictures that looked like refrigerator art to sophisticated jewelry. Inside, there was a man sitting on a folding chair behind one of the display counters. He was reading when Oster and Thinnes entered. He was in his sixties, white haired, thin and gnarled, with a face as lined as a map of canyon country. He put a marker in the book and stood up.

  “May I help you?” He was wearing a flannel shirt, Levi’s, and worn cowboy boots. His voice was very soft but it carried well enough. He gave the impression of having all day to help them.

  “You are?”

  “Noah Hopewell.”

  Irene Yellow’s old man. He was Caucasian, which surprised Thinnes. He put the book on the counter and rested his hands on either side of it. They were spotted and veined and arthritic, and his fingers wouldn’t lie flat. Thinnes said, “We’re looking for Irene.” He showed Hopewell his star. “She’s your daughter?” Hopewell nodded. “You know where we can find her?”

  “Not at present. What’s she done?” His pale blue eyes fixed on something behind Thinnes, shifting toward Thinnes only briefly. In a younger man, this would have given the impression he was lying, but they hadn’t asked him anything, yet, to lie about. Thinnes wondered if it was some kind of cultural thing.

  “We’d just like to ask her some questions,” Oster said.

  Hopewell waited at least fifteen seconds before he said, “If I see her, I’ll tell her.” He didn’t look directly at Oster either, but Thinnes didn’t think he was lying.

  Oster said, “You know a David Bisti?”

  “I did.”

  Oster waited.

  Hopewell didn’t seem retarded, but his answers were forever coming. “He was a friend of Irene’s, years ago. An artist.”

  “Was?”

  “You’re here because someone killed him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Irene told me. And it was on the news.”

  Thinnes said, “What did Irene tell you about Bisti’s death, Mr. Hopewell?”

  “She told me he was a witch and that someone turned his evil around on him and killed him with it. I think she was being sarcastic, though.” He blinked slowly.

  “What does that mean, exactly? How was Bisti a witch?”

  There was another long pause before Hopewell said, “The People do not speak of such things to whites.”

  “You mean the Navajos? You’re not Navajo.”

  “My wife was one of the People. She’s dead now.”

  Thinnes nodded, not offering sympathy he didn’t feel.

  Hopewell finally got back to the question. “Witches are those who deliberately choose to harm others.”

  Oster started to interrupt. Whatever was eating him, lately, was interfering with his work. Thinnes caught his eye and he stopped. Thinnes looked back at Hopewell.

  He was saying, “When someone has been injured by a witch, he commissions a ceremony to reverse the evil and restore the universe to harmony.”

  Thinnes waited until he was sure Hopewell was through, then said, “Tell us about your daughter, Mr. Hopewell.” He thought the old man looked sad. “She claims to be a Navajo.”

  “She has that right. She was born to Two Gray Hills.”

  “Could you explain that?”

  Hopewell said, “Her mother’s family is called Two Gray Hills. When Navajos marry, they affiliate themselves with the wife’s clan and the children are born into that clan. And they’re born for their father’s clan.”

  He didn’t seem to be going to elaborate, so Thinnes said, “How long have you lived here, sir?”

  “Since my wife died, three years ago.”

  “You daughter lives with you?”

  He turned his head slowly from side to side. “She has her own apartment.”

  “Did you see her the night Bisti died?”

  “No.”

  “Did she tell you about what happened at the museum?”

  “My daughter has her own life. She doesn’t account for her time to me.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “No.”

  It was obvious Hopewell had said all he was going to. Thinnes handed him his card. “When you see your daughter, please ask her to call.”

  The old man took the card without looking at it and nodded.

  Thirty-Two

  Thinnes and Oster had court at 26th and Cal the next morning, after which they stopped by at Western and Belmont to answer a page. There was a woman sitting in the Community Relations office with her coat and hat on her lap. She stood up when the officer on duty pointed them out to her and said, “I’m Irene Yellow. I understand I’m wanted for questioning.”

  She was tall for a woman, maybe five ten, with hair and eyes as black as print powder, and high cheekbones in an oval face. She was wearing a red dress of some soft flannelly material that hugged her well-developed curves and came down over her boot tops.

  “We appreciate you coming in to talk to us,” Thinnes told her.

  She gave him a smile that said, plainly, that her cooperation wasn’t entirely voluntary.

  Thinnes said, “Let’s go someplace more quiet.”

  They took her into one of the District Nineteen interview rooms. Thinnes asked her to sit down at the small table that nearly filled the room, and she threw her things across the chair next to hers. He took the seat across from her. Oster sat on the same side as Thinnes, at the far end, and took out his notebook and pen. He waited, holding the book in a way that prevented her seeing what he wrote. Irene Yellow glanced around and relaxed enough to let her disdain show, then looked back at Thinnes, apparently not impressed by him, either.

  “You’re Ms. Irene Yellow?” Thinnes asked.

  “I’m Two Gray Hills.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Thinnes could see Oster blink, but he took down what she said. Thinnes repeated, “Your name is Irene Yellow?”

  “That’s my belagana name.”

  Belagana must mean something like “white man,” Thinnes decided. He said, “You’re Navajo.”

  “I sure am.”

  Thinnes waited the way old man Hopewell had waited. Irene must have been more white than she admitted because the silence had the same effect on her as on most of the people Thinnes interviewed. Eventually, she said, “What now?”

  “Now you tell us what you can about David Bisti.”

  “It’s considered a major faux pas to mention the name of the dead to one of my people.” Her tone was neutral, and she hid whatever she was feeling behind a pleasant poker face. She had dangly silver earrings, a necklace of silver, and rings on every finger and both thumbs. She twisted one of the thumb rings around without seeming to notice it.

  Thinnes wondered if she was serious or just stalling. He said, “So how do you refer to someone who’s died?”

  “We refer to him. We don’t call evil on ourselves by naming him.”

  Thinnes nodded. “What happened Thursday night?”

  “I saw the notice in the paper—for the show—and I was a little miffed that I hadn’t been invited. I decided to drop in anyway.”

  Her smile was defin
itely sarcastic. “I waited till the receptionist was busy—there’s always some nouveau—riche idiot who has to bully the help. I pretended I was waiting to meet someone until she was occupied with one of those and I convinced security that I was the sister of the guest of honor. Maybe the guy forgot to mention it to you. He was very young and had a gap between his front teeth. Ask him.”

  Thinnes remembered him. He hadn’t mentioned any sister. “I will.”

  “Of course,” she added, “he was so busy studying my cleavage, he never asked my name.”

  Thinnes heard a strangling sound to his right and looked to see Oster choking on that. Personally, he didn’t blame the guard. “Then what happened?”

  “I went through the museum, looking for the one who died, getting more angry by the minute—or, I should say, by the atrocity. When I found him—I don’t remember my exact words but I believe I was less than tactful.”

  Thinnes waited. She didn’t say more. “How did he respond?”

  “He laughed. He always knew which button to push to get me going.”

  “You and this artist didn’t get along.”

  “That implies…”

  “Well?”

  “He was a phony. I hate phonies—but not enough to kill one.”

  Thinnes waited.

  “He was from here. He was never one of us. You can’t be one of the Diné—what you call Navajo—and not be from the Dinéhta.” She looked from Thinnes to Oster. “Oh, he lived there for a while—rented a house, went to a few sings to soak up the local color, but he was always an outsider. His mother was white; he couldn’t even name his father’s clan.

  “And?”

  “He was an exploiter. Do you think anyone would have bought that junk he made if he hadn’t claimed to be an Indian?”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “I don’t know. Well…Most of my people grow up being ashamed of being Native American. But how can anyone grow up white in this country and not be ashamed, sickened…”

  The question seemed rhetorical, so Thinnes let it pass.