Mickey returned to his post.
“You hiring?” Joe asked.
“For what, kitchen help?”
“Behind the bar.”
“You?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for a change.”
“My patrons have enough of their own troubles. You think they wanna hear yours?”
Mickey was joking, but Joe figured there was an element of truth lurking in the comment.
“And besides, you have to go to bartending school. That and tight buns get you good tips. Customers like tight buns.”
“Explains your success.”
One of the two female bartenders called an order to Mickey. Joe noticed she did indeed have tight buns.
“Has Gillian been in tonight?”
“No, but Linda and Sue are here.” Mickey pointed. “They’re entertaining a couple of attorneys.”
Joe looked. Linda and Sue were putting on a show, laughing and shouting. He could hear them now. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before. The two men looked like corporate types, dark suits, ties pulled down.
“You want a soda? I saw you taking it easy with Gillian.”
No need to impress her anymore.
But there was Melissa.
“Soda sounds fine.”
OCTOBER 2
SATURDAY, 9:07 A.M.
RESIDENCE OF WILLIAM TOM, FORT DEFIANCE (NAVAJO NATION), ARIZONA
Joe pressed the doorbell beside William Tom’s front door. An extravagance for the rez. Most houses didn’t have electricity. And the owners of those that did were unlikely to waste money on such trivialities as a doorbell.
The house, a single-story adobe structure with a gravel driveway, was not a mansion in any sense of the word, even for the reservation, but it was nice, secluded at the base of a red mesa in the westernmost corner of Fort Defiance, Arizona. A wooden ramp led up to the front door. At the bottom of the ramp, a mutt sat on his haunches, watching Joe and Bluehorse. The dog had been friendly enough, and Joe had given him a treat, which he kept in his vehicle for just such an occasion. The vast majority of the dogs on the rez were not house dogs and not chained. Knocking on a strange door was often risky business. If a dog ignored a treat, Joe took that as fair warning not to step out of his vehicle.
From inside the house came a muffled male voice, angry—someone yelling about the door.
Officer Bluehorse stood next to Joe on the porch. He leaned over and whispered. “You know about his leg?”
Joe’s bewildered look was answer enough.
“He lost it a few years back,” Bluehorse said, “Diabetes, I think.”
Joe looked at the wooden ramp. “Is he going to play sick?”
“He spoke at the county fair last year. He seemed okay then.”
A woman’s voice shouted from behind the door. “Shut up, old man.”
The door swung open, revealing a fortyish Navajo woman with long hair, a too-slim body, and a face that seemed rubbed raw by rough living. Joe suspected alcohol, but she also had the premature aging of a meth user. The top three buttons of her denim shirt were undone, revealing the slopes of two sagging breasts. He guessed she had been pretty once upon a time, but now it was just a fairy tale. Life had been hard on her, or she’d been hard on life.
“Yah-ta-hey,” Bluehorse greeted the woman. “We’re here to see Mr. Tom?”
The woman smiled, showing off her meth mouth. “Is he in trouble? Are you here to arrest him?”
“No.” Bluehorse said. “Only to talk.”
Her smile dissipated. “About what?”
“Is he home, ma’am?” Joe asked.
“What’s it about?”
“He can share that with you if he wants,” Joe said. “But that’ll be his decision.”
A male voice called from inside. “Char! Who is it?”
The woman, who Joe guessed was Char, looked from Joe to Bluehorse, then back to Joe.
“Is it about me?”
“Is there something about you we should know?” Joe asked.
That seemed to stop her. She turned and yelled into the house. “It’s the men in blue. They’re here to see you, old man.” She looked back to Joe. “If you take him, take his wheels, too.” She disappeared inside, leaving the door open.
Bluehorse walked in. Joe followed, shutting the door behind him.
The interior was dark and smelled of left-out food and sickness. They walked down a short hallway that opened into a kitchen on the left and a living room on the right. The rooms were decorated in a southwestern motif, with Navajo rugs adorning the walls and wood beams crossing the ceiling. Beyond the living room, another hallway led to several closed doors—bedrooms most likely. The last door along the hallway slammed closed: Char’s disappearing act.
The occupants of this house did not appear concerned with housekeeping. Balled-up blankets and discarded clothing ornamented the furniture. Opened and unopened mail littered every flat surface. And a haphazard stack of newspapers, more than a foot high, teetered in the corner.
“What can I do for you, Officers? And please pardon my appearance. I was not expecting company.” The voice was that of an old man, and it betrayed some annoyance. William Tom rolled forward in a wheelchair from the kitchen. He wore plaid pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt, though white was generous. His right pajama leg dangled from the chair’s seat in acknowledgment of his missing extremity.
“Mr. Tom, my name is Randall Bluehorse. I’m out of Window Rock. This is Joe Evers. He’s an agent with BIA.”
“An agent? What brings you to my home, Agent?”
William Tom’s voice was cultured. He articulated every word slowly and clearly, as though speaking to someone who might have difficulty understanding him.
“I’m investigating the disappearance of Arlen Edgerton.”
“Arlen Edgerton?” The old man rolled the name around in his mouth as though savoring the syllables. “The name sounds familiar. My memory is not what it used to be.”
“Congressman Edgerton,” Joe said. “He went missing about twenty years ago. Officer Bluehorse recently found his car.”
“Oh, yes. Congressman Edgerton. I recall his disappearance.” William Tom looked at Bluehorse. “What’s so urgent that NPD and BIA couldn’t call first? Your visit has upset my wife.”
“That was your wife?” Joe said without thinking.
“Is there a problem?”
Joe thought it was obvious, but he said nothing.
“So what is so important that you had to show up unannounced?”
“Officer Bluehorse is only accompanying me today. He’s not conducting this interview.”
“Well, speak. What is this all about?”
“Perhaps it would be better if we talk in the kitchen.”
“Here is fine.”
People who tried to make the police feel uncomfortable usually had something to hide or were simply ignorant. Joe doubted that the man before him was the latter.
“I don’t think you want your wife to hear our discussion.”
William Tom looked past Joe, toward the bedroom door. “Fine,” he said. He wheeled himself around and back into the kitchen.
Joe and Bluehorse each took a seat at a wooden table. William Tom tucked himself under the other side, a half-eaten green chili burrito between them.
“Sorry if we interrupted your breakfast,” Joe said.
William Tom pushed the plate to the side without answering.
“Please tell us what you know about Congressman Edgerton.”
“I’m sure this will be a short discussion. I don’t know anything about him. I never met him. I never voted for him. I never spoke to him. Are we done?”
“Mr. Tom, I don’t understand why you’re being so short with us. We’re following up on a lead concerning his disappearance. I’m sure you would want to help if you could, right?”
“What I don’t understand is why you are here. What fresh lead?”
“What was your position with the N
avajo Nation in 1988?”
“Agent Evers, I already told you my memory is not what it used to be.”
“Were you the director of Navajo Antiquities back then?”
William Tom was thoughtful. “Yes. What does that have to do with the congressman’s disappearance?”
So William Tom was going to play along. The old man wanted to know what Joe knew. But there was something else. Something the old man didn’t want Joe to know.
“Tell me about Professor Lawrence Trudle.”
William Tom’s eyebrows dropped low and his eyes darkened. “What about him?”
“I understand he was conducting an excavation that you were overseeing for the Navajo Nation.”
“I oversaw many excavations while I was director.”
“The one I’m asking about was the last place the congressman was seen before his disappearance.”
“Just because I oversaw all the archaeological sites on the reservation doesn’t mean I spent much time at them. I conducted inspections and audited all recovered items, logging them in our artifacts inventory. That was how we kept track of everything found. We lost too much of our culture over the last century through self-proclaimed do-good museums and universities. They raped our history.”
“That was why the congressman visited Professor Trudle’s site.” Joe watched the old man as he spoke. “He was working on legislation to protect Indian culture. He was looking into the theft of a number of artifacts, which the professor had unearthed.”
William Tom leaned back in his seat. “Yes, now I remember. We had several thefts at different sites that year, and the following year, too. I believe the professor wrote a book on those missing artifacts. I read it years ago. He tried to link the Anasazi to the Aztecs. A lot of theory but no evidence. Shameful research. Rather pathetic.”
Bluehorse stayed silent, but Joe saw that he was watching William Tom intently.
“What did you do at Professor Trudle’s site?”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“I’m investigating the congressman’s disappearance. I’m talking to everyone and anyone related to the case. You were overseeing the site the congressman visited. And I have people telling me you might know something about the theft of the artifacts.”
The old man put both of his hands flat on the kitchen table, as if to push himself to a standing position.
“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to, Special Agent? I am the former president of the Navajo Nation. And I would think that title would grant me a little courtesy and perhaps a little protocol, too. How dare you come to my home and accuse me of being involved in some theft of trinkets from two decades ago.”
“I don’t think we’re talking about trinkets, Mr. Tom. And I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have a reason to talk to you.” As Joe said this, he started to doubt his position. After all, this visit was based solely on the professor’s suspicion.
“I think we’re done here, Agent.” William Tom turned to Bluehorse. “And I will have a discussion with your commander about why you brought this man to my home. It is Officer Bluehorse, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Bluehorse said, his voice a tad shaky.
Joe had one card to play. “Tell me about Arthur Othmann, Mr. Tom.”
That seemed to curb the old man’s anger. The lines on his face deepened into shadowed crevices of age and defeat. He looked at Joe and then down at his own hands. The old man had spent what little energy he had on that display of indignation. Joe had called his bluff, and the old man’s resolve had faltered.
“I am a sick man. I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me. Trying to tarnish what I’ve done for my people. I—”
Now Joe simply needed to make the old man feel safe in revealing his secrets. “Mr. Tom, I’m just trying to find out what happened to the congressman, that’s all. I’m not trying to tarnish your reputation or that of the Navajo presidency. Help me. Tell me what you know about Arthur Othmann.”
“He’s a collector. And a powerful man. His money has helped many Navajo.”
Joe chose his words carefully. “Did he collect the items from Professor Trudle’s site?”
The former president of the largest Indian reservation in the world hung his head like a schoolkid caught cheating on a test. “You don’t understand what it was like on the reservation back then. The corruption. Our people discarded by the world. We needed change. We needed unity. We needed vision. I did that. I gave hope to my people. I went off and learned in your schools and brought back that knowledge to make us stronger. And we are better for it.”
“I know that, Mr. Tom. You led the Navajo Nation into a new century of prosperity. My guess is that Othmann took advantage of the situation back then. Is that what he did? Did he try to profit from the misery of your people while pretending to help them? Pretending to help you?”
The old man’s head moved up, then down. Affirmation.
“What happened at the site?” Joe asked, his voice soft, encouraging. He looked at Bluehorse. The officer sat motionless, not taking his eyes from his former leader.
“I went to the site to do the audit. When I—” William Tom began.
A door banged.
Joe turned. From his seat at the table, he had a view of the length of the house and saw Char walking toward the living room from the bedroom.
“I’m going out, old man. I’ll be back whenever.”
She jangled a set of keys in her hand.
“I’m sure law and order can see themselves out.” Char disappeared down the short hallway to the front entrance. The front door opened and closed. Joe turned back to William Tom.
The old man no longer looked so old.
“I don’t have any more to say. I’m not feeling well, so you are both going to have to leave. As my wife said, you can see yourselves out.”
“Mr. Tom, why don’t we—”
William Tom pushed his chair back from the table. He wheeled himself into the living room. “I said we’re done.”
They had been close, but Joe knew they would get no closer. Not now. He stood. So did Bluehorse.
“Mr. Tom, this matter isn’t going away. I will find out what happened to the congressman and what happened at that site. I think we both know it’s better if you help us get to the truth. Otherwise, I can’t help you.”
William Tom did not slow down. He rolled toward the bedroom hallway. “I need to rest now.”
The old man opened the first door along the hallway and wheeled himself through it.
Joe and Bluehorse started toward the front door.
“Hold on,” Joe said. He walked to the pile of newspapers and rifled through the stack. He found it: a Navajo Times from the week before. The front page had a section cut out.
“Any guesses on what the article was about?” Joe asked, handing the dissected paper to Bluehorse.
OCTOBER 3
SUNDAY, 10:40 A.M.
JOE EVERS’S APARTMENT, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
Joe slept in on Sunday morning. Christine had paid him a visit the night before. He’d dreamed they were having breakfast at some pancake house, discussing what Joe would do after retirement. It was as if she’d never left. They talked about moving to Florida to be by the water. He said they should consider Jersey to be closer to Melissa. Christine had laughed at the suggestion.
“Give her some space,” she said. “You’re smothering her.”
“Someone broke into her apartment.”
“I know. But you need to let her deal with it. You won’t always be there for her. And neither will I. She has to be able to take care of herself. And she will, if you let her.”
“I—”
“Let her.” She put her hand over his.
And at her touch, he awoke.
He didn’t know how long he had lain in bed after that, stroking her pillow, talking to her, asking her questions she never answered. Eventually, he fell back asleep.
Now he showered. Afterward, h
e would go in search of an IHOP or some other restaurant like the one in his dream.
OCTOBER 4
MONDAY, 8:46 A.M.
BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
“You wanted to see me?” Joe said.
Dale sat behind his desk, a cotton swab in one hand and a dark blue model car in the other. “I got a call about you,” Dale said.
“A fan?”
“Chief Cornfield.”
“Not a fan?”
“Definitely not a fan.”
Dale pushed the swab through the car’s opened doors. It was a Mercedes. Joe didn’t know the model.
“He said you were out to see William Tom. Tom’s the former president of the Navajo Nation, in case you didn’t know who you interviewed Saturday.”
“My interview had nothing to do with his presidency.”
Dale put down the car and leaned back in his seat, his hands on the armrests.
“You never thought to … oh, I don’t know … maybe tell your supervisor you might be interviewing the former head of the largest Indian reservation in the country?”
“I was going to tell you today. Sorry you caught shit about it. What’s his gripe?”
“Chief Cornfield doesn’t want you talking to Tom again without one of their senior investigators present.”
“Did you tell him he’s interfering with a federal investigation?”
“Perhaps I would have had you kept me informed. But since you decided to leave me out there hanging again, I returned the favor. I told him okay.”
“Bullshit.”
“What’s bullshit is your running around like a martyred prima donna, thinking you can do whatever you want, and then when someone calls you on it, you cry that everyone’s on your back.”
“You’re just a big ol’ teddy bear, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure you’re going to stub your toe a few more times before you’re out of here. Give the case to Cordelli. Enjoy your last few months.”
Dale watched, waiting for a response. Did he expect Joe just to roll over? Give the case to Wonder Boy? Walk away from the headaches and battles? It sounded good. Real good. And easy, too. All he had to do was agree and he could be out there job hunting again. But Sierra was counting on him to do right by her sister. And Christine would’ve wanted him to see this through. Any family would want closure. He thought of Melissa and his stomach tightened.
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