Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  “He’s the lawyer in Mexico City your husband used to set up a bank account.”

  “I remember now. Not his name, but that a lawyer was involved. I am sure he will tell you my husband did not set up that account. When do you plan to speak to him?”

  “Yeah,” Staples said. “When? If he says it wasn’t Arlen, we can feed that to the press.”

  “Nothing is going to be fed to the press,” Joe said. “This is an investigation, not a campaign stunt.”

  “I understand,” Mrs. Edgerton said. “But you will be speaking to him, right?”

  “I don’t know. He’s an attorney and outside U.S. jurisdiction. There’s not much reason for him to speak to me.”

  “Well, that sucks,” Staples said.

  “Have you ever owned a gun, Mrs. Edgerton?”

  “I really think Ed should be here,” Staples said.

  She raised her hand, gesturing for Staples to be quiet. “No, I never owned a gun.”

  Joe asked a few more questions, but none that revealed any new information.

  “Okay, Mr. Evers. I answered your questions. Now, please answer mine. Was the body you recovered yesterday my husband’s?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s an ongoing inv—”

  “Damn you, Mr. Evers. Don’t treat me like a suspect. It’s my husband’s disappearance you’re investigating. My husband. Not just a name in your case file.”

  Joe was surprised by her directness, but he wouldn’t be bullied.

  “We haven’t identified the remains yet. OMI will do the identification. Hopefully, we’ll know in a few days.”

  They asked Joe and Bluehorse several more probing questions, which Joe wouldn’t answer. Then Paige asked to end the meeting so the congresswoman could have some alone time before her next appointment. Paige stayed with her while Staples walked Joe and Bluehorse out.

  “Why was Senator Holmes here?” Joe asked.

  “Arlen’s car is a headache for everyone,” Staples said. “I have a pack of reporters waiting for my press release,” he added. “We go to the polls in three weeks. What you release to the press can change the outcome of this election. You know that. So I hope you don’t have a political ax to grind. Grace is the real deal. And I’m not saying that because I’m paid to. She wants the best for this state. Bad press can kill her chances. From what I understand, you’re no stranger to bad press.”

  “I’m not following you,” Joe said.

  “I read about the Longman case.”

  Joe didn’t reply.

  “So please keep us updated on what you find out. I’d appreciate it, and so would Grace.”

  “That’s a hell of a way to get me on your side.”

  “I’m not trying to get you on my side. I don’t want anyone saying we tried to influence your investigation. I just want you to know I’ll be watching. I know she’s not involved. As long as the truth comes out, she’ll win this election. I’m confident of that. But if someone decides to play games with the truth and drags her into this mess … well, some members of the press who support her might not like it. And I’ll be sure to point them to the person responsible.” Staples reached into his pants pocket. “Here. It’ll be a collector’s item when she’s president.” He handed Joe and Bluehorse each a small white-and-blue Edgerton for Governor button. “Don’t forget to vote.”

  SEPTEMBER 29

  WEDNESDAY, 4:40 P.M.

  EDGERTON FOR GOVERNOR HEADQUARTERS, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  Helena Newridge, arms crossed, large purse dangling, leaned against Joe’s Tahoe like a thug taking ownership of a corner.

  “I didn’t hear from you, Joe.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Bluehorse said as he walked on to his own unit, leaving Joe to deal with her by himself. The young officer displayed much wisdom.

  “What are you doing here, Helena?”

  “Same as you. Came to talk to her. I was hoping you came to arrest her, but I guess that was wishful thinking.”

  “Why would I arrest her?”

  “Because she killed her husband.”

  Joe waited for the bomb.

  “I lied to you yesterday,” Helena said. “You asked what my angle was. Well, I think little Miss Oh I Love New Mexico is a vindictive, cheated-on wife who took revenge on her rotten, philandering husband.”

  Joe unlocked the door to his Tahoe. “And you base this on…”

  “The fact I was a vindictive, cheated-on wife who wanted revenge on my rotten, philandering husband.”

  Joe smiled. “So where were you the day Arlen Edgerton went missing?”

  She gave a full belly laugh. “Joey, you do have a sense of humor. I wasn’t so sure of that yesterday.”

  He didn’t care for Joey, but coming from her it seemed friendly, almost endearing. “How do you know Edgerton’s even dead?”

  “I don’t, but I was hoping that the body you recovered would be his.”

  “That wouldn’t prove she killed him.”

  “No, but a source tells me she knew about his affair with Faye and they argued about it. There may even have been talk of Arlen leaving her to marry Faye. His bullet-riddled body would go a long way in supporting my theory.”

  “Who’s your source?”

  “Oh, Joey. You know better than that.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Good try, but I never said he. And the source said Mrs. Edgerton was mean enough to do it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I thought this was a two-way street.”

  “What’s your question?”

  “Did she own a gun?”

  “I’m told no,” Joe said. He climbed in behind the wheel.

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “Can’t say.” He started the engine.

  “Did Arlen own a gun?”

  “Probably, but I haven’t checked yet.”

  “Hmmm. I’ll be checking on that, too.”

  “Good, let me know what you find.” He tried to close the door. She held it open.

  “Not so fast, Joey. Whose body is it?”

  “When I get an ID, I’ll call you.”

  “That’s it? I give you good stuff, and you give me nothing.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Check into that gun angle. Find me a gun and I’ll tell you if it’s involved. How’s that?”

  She thought about that. “Is there anything I should know before I talk to the wannabe governor?”

  “Yeah, watch out for her campaign manager. He bites.”

  SEPTEMBER 29

  WEDNESDAY, 5:05 P.M.

  INTERSTATE HIGHWAY 25 SOUTH, OUTSIDE OF SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  Cruising along 25 on his way home, Joe’s mind filtered out the rush-hour traffic around him and instead replayed the interview with Grace Edgerton. She’d proved to be of little value. In a cold case, it was often hard to read a person’s emotions so many years after a crime. Witnesses and subjects, even victims, find it easy to hide behind faulty memories. In this case, Joe felt the congresswoman had been honest with him. Hell, he wanted to believe she’d been honest with him. But he couldn’t be sure. She made a living by telling people what they wanted to hear.

  She’d mentioned three people Joe planned on interviewing. Kendall Holmes, now Senator Holmes, with whom an interview seemed unlikely. Dwight Henry, whose name she hadn’t been able to recall, referring to him only as the AIM member who had sent the threatening letter. Joe had found a copy of the letter in the case file, as well as an interview with Dwight by the original case agent. And finally, she had mentioned an archaeologist, who seemed to be the last person to have seen Arlen and his group alive, Professor Lawrence Trudle. Joe had read the professor’s interview and found it light, their meeting the day the congressman had disappeared amounting to nothing more than a few minutes staring at a dig site. At least that’s how the report read, but Joe felt there had been more to it. He planned on talking to the professor sooner rather than later. Actually, tomorrow. Joe had s
earched his name on the Internet that morning and found him still listed as a faculty member at UNM. His posted office hours were nine to eleven o’clock on Thursdays.

  Joe also planned to call upon Senator Holmes tomorrow, or at least schedule an appointment for an interview. But that would depend on the BIA. It was the agency’s protocol to get approval before interviewing any state or federal politician. Joe had requested approval from Dale just that morning to interview Grace Edgerton. The request had gone up to D.C. Two hours later, the approval came down. He wondered how long it would take for approval to interview Senator Holmes, who sat on the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs, overseers of the BIA. Joe might retire before that approval was granted. So only Dwight Henry was left. He decided he would let Bluehorse track down that lead.

  He called Bluehorse. They rehashed Grace Edgerton’s interview first and then talked about Dwight Henry and recent AIM activity on the reservation, which turned out to be virtually nonexistent, at least to Bluehorse’s knowledge, but he said he would check into it. The young officer agreed to locate the activist and try to set up an interview, which Joe warned might not be easy. AIM had a long-standing distrust of the government and law enforcement, including tribal law enforcement.

  After disconnecting with Bluehorse, and still driving, Joe took out his notebook and wrote down “Gun” at the bottom of his notes on Grace Edgerton. Next to it he wrote “Helena Newridge.” She might prove useful after all. Who was her source? Someone who must have known Grace and Arlen well, unless it was all a lie. Was the source someone on Grace’s staff? A family member? Someone from the other candidate’s team trying to plant suspicion right before the election? Exactly what Staples had warned about. For now, he’d have to weigh Helena’s information very carefully. He hated reporters. Even when they were helping, they were a pain in the ass. Her source could be anyone, perhaps even Grace’s running mate. He wasn’t exactly sure how politics worked in New Mexico, but he recalled that the candidates for governor and lieutenant governor ran on separate tickets in the primary. If Grace was dirtied up, would the running mate get a shot at the governor’s ticket? He didn’t know. He tried to recall the name of her running mate. Jackson Adler. The owner of Adler Advanced Materials, a New Mexico defense and aerospace company. A big player. Rich. Probably ambitious, too. Joe would consider the angle, but it was a little too far-fetched. KISS—keep it simple, stupid. A touchstone for investigators. And Stretch’s recommendation. He needed to focus on probabilities, not possibilities. Another maxim. Besides, Joe hated politics.

  He turned his attention to driving. Traffic was somewhat heavy heading back to Albuquerque. It would take at least another forty minutes.

  He picked up his phone again and punched in his daughter’s number. He loved talking to her, loved learning what was new in her life, loved hearing her say she was happy and her grades were great. They always were. She was smart. Her mother’s genes, no doubt. The “Radiant Book Worms” he would call them both. That and “Brainy Bugs.” But there were days when he would avoid talking to her. The days he had difficulty accepting that Christine was gone. He would avoid Melissa then because he knew he would bring her down, make her worry about him. Even when he put on a happy front, she sensed his depression somehow.

  She answered this time. He could hear voices and music in the background.

  “Hey, Brainy Bug. How’s the semester shaping up?” he asked.

  “Would you be upset if I dropped out and returned home to start a broccoli farm?”

  “You can always come home, but I know you’re lying.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “’Cause you hate broccoli.”

  “Damn, I should have said cauliflower.”

  “I’m sure Columbia’s too easy for you. Maybe you should have chosen Harvard.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, too easy. I study all night, every night.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re studying tonight. You at a party?”

  “Why, you worried?”

  “Of course. New York. Big city, big worries.”

  “There’s a filmmaker here who’s showing his latest documentary. They’re playing music.”

  He listened. “Mexican?”

  “Mexican folk-festival music. That’s what his film’s about.”

  “Okay, now I feel better. I know you’re not mixing with the wrong crowd if you’re going to events like that. So, anything new?”

  Only the Mexican folk music came through the phone.

  “Melissa?”

  “No, nothing new.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dad, you’re interrogating me.”

  “Only because I love you. Now spill.” He held his breath, waiting for the worst.

  “Well, it’s really good news, but I don’t know how you’ll take it.”

  “Honey, I never want you to be afraid to talk to me or tell me anything. What is it?”

  “Well … I told you my grades were really good, and … well … I got invited to do a student exchange at Cambridge for next semester. It’s really a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance again and it’s really a big deal and I really want to go and I hope you’re okay with it.”

  Several things ran through his mind. First and foremost was how far away she would be and that he wouldn’t be there if she needed him. But then he realized he wasn’t there for her now. She was two thousand miles away.

  “Honey, that’s great.”

  “No it’s not. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Now you’re interrogating me.”

  “I know you’re worried, but I’ll be all right. You know you can trust me.”

  “Honey, I always trust you. It’s the guys I don’t trust. And of course I’m happy for you. I don’t want you to pass up such a great opportunity.”

  “I’m so happy you’re okay with it, Dad. I have to put in my name next week, and I was worried about asking you. When I get home, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Just make sure you get me some pictures of Stonehenge, and maybe a little piece of it, too, if nobody’s looking. Nothing big. A chip will do.”

  “You got it. So what’s new in Albuquerque?”

  “Nothing. Except your over-the-hill father had a date last night.” He’d gotten caught up in her good mood and tossed it out without thinking. He hadn’t intended on mentioning it at all. And never like that.

  Only the Mexican folk music came through the line.

  Idiot, he thought.

  “Melissa?”

  Folk music.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to throw it out there like that. It wasn’t a date. Just dinner.”

  “Dad, it’s okay. You caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting it. I’m happy. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Gillian and she works in Albuquerque at a big construction company.”

  “She’s a construction worker?”

  “Yep, operates a jackhammer and rips cast-iron pipes out of the ground with her teeth. They call her Gillian the Giant.”

  “Wow, a keeper. So, how did you meet her?”

  “Hey, what’s with the twenty questions? You’re at your Mexican folk thing. How about we talk about this later?”

  “It sounds like you’re avoiding me.”

  “I am.”

  “Okay, but before you hang up, tell me how your job interview went.”

  “Went great. Knocked the guy’s socks off. Literally. He had to pick them up in between questions. Now get back to your fiesta. We’ll talk later.”

  “Love you, Dad.”

  “Not as much as I love you, Brainy Bug.”

  He pressed the disconnect key, not wanting to end the conversation but knowing she would start digging if he didn’t. She worried about him probably as much as he worried about her.

  SEPTEMBER 29

  WEDNESDAY, 6:30 P.M.

  GATES RANCH, SOUTH OF KAUFMAN, TEXAS

  Ellery Gates thumbe
d the television remote. Every station had news about the body. Talking heads spouted all kinds of nonsense and conspiracy theories. One idiot even suggested Ellery was somehow involved, explaining that it might have been an attempt to cover up his own corruption. “Everyone knows,” the moron had said, “Ellery was in New Mexico that day. He would be at the top of my suspect list.” Of course no one mentioned Ellery had not arrived in Albuquerque till after Edgerton had been reported missing. So, like any newsworthy item that held the nation’s attention, lies and speculation took center stage over logic and reason. Ellery was being dragged back into the spotlight of political corruption. Joy.

  But he supposed he couldn’t complain. The last ten years had been peaceful for him. He’d left Oklahoma, his birth state, the state where two libraries, a section of highway, a federal building, and an overpass were named for Samson Gates, his father and the longest-serving United States senator to represent the Sooners. His father had left big shoes for his only son to fill. But Congressman Ellery Gates had given it his best. He had believed he was doing the right thing for the state. Thought he was even on the side of the angels. So what if he catered to the old-boy network? He used that very same network to do good, too. Some folks might even have considered his accomplishments great, but not anymore. Not after a fall. Never after a plunge from Mount Olympus.

  He never took the money because he needed it—or even wanted it. It was just the way that sort of thing worked. The money was only so the other side felt comfortable about the arrangement, less chance of a double cross. And Ellery never sold his conscience. He always did what he felt was right, even when money was involved. If it wasn’t right, no deal. The news had labeled his actions the result of greed. But Ellery was wealthy, very wealthy. His grandfather had been one of the largest wheat producers in Oklahoma, and later, when natural gas was found under his fields, owner of the largest gas reserve in the eastern part of the state. That same wealth had financed Samson Gates’s run for the Senate and kept him in office for almost three decades. But it couldn’t keep Ellery there. After Casinogate—CNN’s coinage—Ellery became the old-boy whipping boy.

  “Do you need anything else before I turn in?” Mariana stood in the doorway to the television room, where Ellery found himself most nights now. She wiped her hands on a dish towel.