Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  “No prob—”

  “I’m not done. You hold off on the story till I say when.”

  There was a pause on the other end. Then she said, “I’ll hold off a week.”

  “I still need to interview him. We’re trying to find him.”

  “Okay, but don’t take too long, Joey,” she said. “I need something for my editor.” There was a hint of desperation in her voice.

  He told her about Dwight Henry, aka Hawk Rushingwater.

  OCTOBER 1

  FRIDAY, 2:37 P.M.

  CENTRAL AVENUE, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Officer Bobby Joe Lopez sipped from his large McDonald’s Coke as he cruised down Central Avenue. He should switch to diet. The sodas were costing him an extra hour in the gym each week. He had put in a request to transfer to the bike unit for the summer, but it had been denied. That bitch Chavez had probably squashed it. She had it in for him. He could tell by the way she spoke to him. She knew he didn’t go for old Mexican chicks. He’d caught her staring at him once. It wasn’t his problem she was ass-ugly and looked like an overstuffed burrito. He made exceptions for mature women who took care of themselves, like his sergeant’s wife, Vicky. They’d met at the police barbecue last summer. Now, every time Sarge fucked with him, he fucked her. She’d been so exhausted after their last rodeo together, she hadn’t known he’d snapped a few photos of her sprawled out on the bed—Sarge’s bed—naked and covered in Bobby Joe’s sweat. Vicky had smelled of rough sex and cheating. Just like that bitch Faye. He’d loved Faye, and she’d broken his heart with that prick Edgerton. They were all cheats. All of them. Nothing but sluts. And that’s how he used them, too, slut machines. Like the nickel slots at a casino, only good for deposits, never a worthwhile jackpot or a lifetime payout. He took out his phone and pulled up the photos of Vicky. A little loose around the middle, but she had a nice can. Maybe he’d text her later. When he got tired of her, he might send the images to Sarge, anonymously of course. He knew she was banging other guys, probably other cops. She’d never know he sent them. Woman just couldn’t lock it up. He had suspected Faye was fucking more than just Edgerton. She’d been a little too friendly with the other guy in her office. He was a senator now. Bobby Joe had seen his campaign ads and recognized him. The guy hadn’t looked like he did when he’d worked with her. He’d worn tinted glasses then, to hide his two different-colored eyes. Bobby Joe had joked, calling him “The Crayola Kid.” Faye hadn’t laughed. That’s how he’d known. The guy belonged in a circus, not Congress. Bobby Joe grinned. Congress was a circus.

  His radio squawked. “Ten-ten, Pine and Gold Avenue.”

  Bobby took the call. He flicked on his lights and sirens and accelerated to forty-five on Central Avenue, weaving through midafternoon traffic. He blasted through a red light at University Boulevard, almost getting T-boned by a FedEx truck. At Pine Street, he turned left and raced one block to Gold. He hung another left and stopped in the middle of the street. Two men in their twenties, both in white tank tops, were fighting in front of a tricked-out gold Cadillac. The skinnier of the two looked to be losing. Blood covered his face and the front of his shirt. A small group of onlookers watched, doing nothing. A girl screamed and stood crying by the car. Probably the skinny guy’s girlfriend. She had a nice rack. Big and round.

  Bobby got out, stretched his neck left, then right, flicked his expandable steel baton to its full length, and ran over to break it up—or break some heads. He felt pumped. He hoped one of them would resist. Then he’d pretend it was that BIA asshole and break his fucking skull.

  OCTOBER 1

  FRIDAY, 3:00 P.M.

  BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Joe called Bluehorse, but before he could tell him about OMI’s identification of Nick Garcia, Bluehorse told him about his encounter with Rushingwater.

  “He was smiling when I got hit,” Bluehorse said.

  “Did you arrest anyone? Gallup PD help?”

  “No,” Bluehorse said, regret in his voice. “There was another guy. He was pretty levelheaded. He got me out of there and said I shouldn’t ramp it up because Rushingwater might not talk to us if I did. His name is Sleeping Bear. He’s Rushingwater’s deputy or lieutenant. Something like that.”

  “Rushingwater. Sleeping Bear. These guys sound like a bad Western.” Joe was familiar with family names on the Navajo reservation. These were clearly meant for impact.

  “They’re into native revival. Going back to their roots. Shedding the white man’s influence.”

  “They sound more like a National Geographic special than a native movement.” Joe bit his lip as soon as he’d said it. He hadn’t meant to be insensitive. He was simply frustrated for Bluehorse and angry at the protesters. A crowd mentality was dangerous. The young officer could have been hurt.

  “Anyway,” Bluehorse said, seeming to ignore the comment, “Sleeping Bear told me where they stay in Chinle. This weekend, they have rallies at a few beer distributors in Gallup and Holbrook, but I don’t think we should try that again.”

  “We’ll catch them in Chinle next week.” Joe told him about OMI’s identification of Nick Garcia.

  “Does that help us?” Bluehorse asked.

  “I don’t know. But I want to get the dogs out there again and widen the search area. Also, I spoke to that professor at UNM, the archaeologist.” Joe gave Bluehorse a summary of what Professor Trudle had told him, but he played down William Tom’s suspected involvement in the theft of the artifacts, saying only that the former president might know something about Edgerton’s visit to the site. “Do you want to be there when I talk to him?”

  Silence. Joe waited. He knew it could be a political minefield for Bluehorse, but he wanted to give him the chance to be part of the interview.

  “What information is he supposed to have?” Bluehorse asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  More silence.

  “I take it you don’t want me asking permission.”

  “You are correct, sir,” Joe said, imitating Ed McMahon from his Tonight Show days. He thought the humor might lighten a heavy decision for the Navajo officer.

  Bluehorse didn’t respond. Joe wondered if Bluehorse even knew who Johnny Carson was.

  Bluehorse had a difficult decision. Even though Tom was out of office, he probably still had a few chits owed to him, and he could use them to cause Bluehorse trouble, maybe even his job. Navajo politics suffered from favoritism and protectionism and plain old bullshitism. Doing the right thing on the reservation didn’t matter much if it made someone in power look bad.

  “I’m in,” the young officer said.

  He’d judged him right. “You’re okay in my book, Bluehorse.”

  “I hope your book has a help wanted section for when they fire my crazy Indian ass.”

  “When the shit hits the fan, tell them I dragged you along to translate.”

  “You think I don’t know about the white man’s defense. I plan to toss you under the wagon wheel at the first sign of trouble.”

  OCTOBER 1

  FRIDAY, 3:55 P.M.

  BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  “Arthur Othmann popped up in my investigation.” Joe said, his notepad flipped open in his hand.

  Stretch, who was sitting at his desk, turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

  “A professor named him as a possible person of interest. What’s the dirt on him?”

  Stretch looked confused, but he answered. “He’s from Santa Fe. Rich. I’m told he has the largest collection of Indian art outside of the Smithsonian.”

  “And he might be a murderer,” Sadi said as she came out from her cubicle, which adjoined Stretch’s.

  “That’s all conjecture,” Stretch said. “We don’t have anything solid on him. A lot of rumors, that’s all.”

  Sadi moved closer to Joe. “And one missing person.”

  “Your grand jury witness
?” Joe asked.

  “Eddie’s facing at least five on the child rap even if he flips on Othmann,” Stretch said. “I’m betting he ran.”

  “We checked his house,” Sadi said, incredulity in her voice. “He left everything. His clothes. His money. Even his pot. You think he just up and left? Bullshit.”

  Joe asked, “What do you have on his black-market activities?”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Sadi shook her head. “You first. Othmann is our case. Spill. How’s he tied to Edgerton?”

  “I spoke to an archaeologist at UNM. He thinks Othmann bought artifacts that were stolen from the dig site that Edgerton visited the day he disappeared.”

  Stretch asked, “How did your archaeologist come up with his name?”

  “Not real clear. He says Othmann is a big-time dealer in native art and artifacts. Retail and black market.”

  “That’s pretty weak,” Stretch said. “Anyone in the state who deals in native art would know him. He’s local and he has money.”

  “Maybe,” Sadi said, “but that sounds like our guy’s MO.”

  Joe turned his attention to her. “Tell me about him.”

  Sadi’s eyes narrowed, but she filled him in. “He was probably just getting started when Edgerton went missing. We don’t have much on him from back then. He’s a collector. Loves native art. If he touches antiquities, it’s usually art items. Pottery, drawings, rugs. He’s rich, probably ten or twenty million. Family money. Dad owned a number of mines—silver, nickel, and coal. He went off to school to learn business but came back an art snob and liking white powder.”

  Joe made some notes.

  Sadi continued: “He has a private fortress in Santa Fe, complete with bodyguard.”

  “David Drud, aka Books,” Stretch said. “Interesting story there. When Books was in juvie, he was molested by one of the counselors. One night, while he was being counseled in the library, David grabs a Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, one of the big ones that you can use as a step stool, and bashes the guy over the head with it. Repeatedly. They find the guy’s brains under M, for mush. After that, people called him Books. It stuck. He’s been a suspect in several murders over the years and spent six inside for agg assault.”

  “Was Books with Othmann twenty years ago?”

  “No,” Sadi said. “Othmann’s had a string of muscle over the years. Books is the latest. I don’t know who he had back then.” She looked at Stretch. “You?”

  Stretch shook his head.

  “You think Othmann is capable of murder?” Joe asked.

  “Hell yeah,” Sadi said. “But what’s the motive for Edgerton? How do you tie him to Othmann?”

  “NAGPRA.”

  Stretch laughed. “NAGPRA wasn’t passed until 1990. Edgerton went missing in ’88.”

  “Edgerton was an original cosponsor. The bill was making its way around Congress in ’88.”

  “That’s pretty far out there,” Sadi said. “He’s smart, but that’s way too forward-thinking even for him. Kill a congressman to kill a piece of legislation? I don’t buy it.”

  Joe wasn’t surprised. “Neither do I, but the connection is interesting. And I think it’s worth checking out.”

  “Why don’t you let us run it down?” Stretch asked.

  “No, I’ll check it out. I might pay him a visit.”

  “The hell you will.” Sadi stabbed a finger at Joe. “He’s ours. Check him out all you want, but don’t go talking to him and tipping him off.”

  “Relax, Sadi,” Stretch said. “He’s only following a lead. We may not even have a case if our guy doesn’t show up soon.”

  “You get anything, you give it to us,” Sadi said. “He’s been on our radar for the past three years, and we haven’t been able to get shit on him.”

  “Three years? I have less than three months. If he’s involved in Edgerton’s disappearance, he’s mine.”

  “No fucking way.” Her face was red.

  “Sorry, Sadi, but I’m short on time. If I need to talk to him, I will.”

  She turned and stormed into her cubicle. “Asshole.”

  OCTOBER 1

  FRIDAY, 4:35 P.M.

  OFFICE OF SENATOR KENDALL HOLMES, 110 HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The office bespoke statesmanship. The navy-and-gold-striped settee, blue leather wing chair, polished wood tables and bookshelves, and the many photos of Holmes with the who’s who of Washington, as well as a few favorable Hollywood personalities, were all appropriate for a true statesman, a leader of the free world. Not the leader. Not yet. But one of its leaders. He’d solidified that position when he took his post on the Appropriations Committee six years ago. He would soon be appointed to the Foreign Relations Committee, which would give him the necessary international credentials to make a viable run in the presidential primary in five years. That is, if this whole Edgerton drama didn’t derail his plans before he could deposit his first campaign contribution.

  So far, the press hadn’t set their sights on him. There had been some comments on a few political blogs referring to him as Edgerton’s policy guru, which were both a compliment and a slight, because they implied he had a lot of influence on the Indian gaming legislation. The other knocks came from a few comedians. One particularly popular political satirist had made a sly comment that Senator Holmes brought a lot of professional experience to the Appropriations Committee with his gambling and corruption background. Then he followed that with a joke about appointing a cat as head of security in a tuna factory. Something smells fishy. Ba dum bum.

  Holmes looked up from his computer when his head of security walked into the office. He’d been reading through articles sent to him by his news-clipping service, which gave him a daily accounting of all items mentioning his name. He needed to stay on top of the Edgerton debacle, so he’d been diligently reading every word of every write-up. The number of blogs had become overwhelming, and those authors were more willing to voice opinions based on nothing but conjecture. That was troubling.

  “Helena Newridge called again,” Malcolm Tsosie said. He stood almost at attention, shoulders back, hands at his sides, but with the relaxed posture of a person who had no need to impress and no desire to be subservient.

  Senator Holmes imagined that was how proud Indian chiefs had stood when they first met representatives of the United States government centuries back. They thought they were on equal footing, but they weren’t. Malcolm had grown a little too comfortable over the years. A little too in the know. Holmes might have to deal with him someday. But not now. Not with the Edgerton mess mucking up the works. Malcolm had a talent for those things. A talent for dealing with law enforcement and for getting information.

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “What do you think?”

  And a little too cocky, too.

  Holmes debated if he should call her back. He believed in Sun Tzu’s advice: Keep your enemies closer. Newridge could be his enemy one day. All journalists were potential enemies to a politician. He wanted to know what she knew. He pulled out her business card, which she’d given to him over breakfast. Thin card stock. Cheap. It had her cell phone number on the back, written in purple ink. He dialed, then waved for Malcolm to take a seat.

  “Hello, Helena.” He used her first name. Make her feel like a friend. Her abrasive voice came through the earpiece, and he rubbed his brow as though his brain ached.

  “Threats from an AIM member on the Navajo reservation?” he said, more for Malcolm’s ears than to infer thoughtfulness. “Yes, I do remember something about that.”

  His brain didn’t ache so much now.

  OCTOBER 1

  FRIDAY, 5:14 P.M.

  BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  On his way out of the office, Joe stopped at Stretch’s desk. Sadi was in her cubicle, on the phone.

  Joe whispered, “Send me what you have on Othmann and Books.”

  “Man, you’re messi
ng with fire. She will kick your ass.”

  Joe grinned.

  “I’m serious,” Stretch said. “She’s taking this whole grand jury thing personal. And anyway, Sadi’s right. We know these characters. Let us run it down.”

  “I need it. I need to climb back on the horse.”

  “What is this, a Western? You get back up on the horse and what? You ride off into the sunset?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re losing it, cowboy.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I want to get a little justice for the skeleton we found in the woods.”

  “Wow. That’s not just any horse you’re riding. That there’s a high horse.”

  OCTOBER 1

  FRIDAY, 5:32 P.M.

  MICKEY’S BAR & GRILL, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Mickey stood behind the counter, filling two pints of draft. The bar was full, the Friday-night crowd packed in tight. Joe got lucky and found a seat at the counter, behind the beer taps, Mickey’s post during happy hour. Throughout the night, the other two bartenders would give Mickey their draft orders, and he would fill them, giving each pint a perfect head.

  “What’s the good word, Joe?”

  “I need new coworkers and a new boss.”

  “Ever think it was you?”

  Joe didn’t answer.

  “Dale’s not so bad,” Mickey said. “But I guess everyone hates their boss.”

  “You’re a boss.”

  “Yeah, but I’m the exception.”

  “I don’t think Serafina would agree.”

  “Serafina,” Mickey yelled. “Am I a good boss?”

  She carried several plates of Combos on her way to the dining room. “Pretty good, except when you’re here.”

  A group of patrons at the bar laughed.

  “Remember that when you ask for a raise.”

  She launched into fast Spanish, which did not sound complimentary.

  Mickey walked to the end of the counter, his limp not so noticeable tonight. He grabbed the white towel that he kept draped over his shoulder and tossed it into a metal bucket that sat on the floor. He picked up a fresh one from the folded pile on the back shelf and whipped it into place on the same shoulder. Joe watched in a seeming trance. Maybe he could leave BIA, start fresh like that towel.