Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  “No. I got it.”

  “Do your job, don’t cause any problems, and I’ll be happy.”

  “We done?”

  “One last thing. I’ve got reporters calling me daily on this case. I’m handling them, but I don’t want to start getting updates from them or other departments. Understand?”

  When Joe got to his desk, he found Othmann’s file waiting for him. He read through it. Nothing much. Suspected of this. Suspected of that. Not a nice guy, but he knew that already. At the back of the folder was a rap sheet on David “Books” Drud. Six years in Marion for putting a pipe wrench to the legs of a plumber in Philadelphia. The plumber had liked the Broncos a little more than he could afford. Books had worked for the bank.

  Joe closed the file and logged into his computer. The only unread message was from Atlantic Technologies. The invoice for Melissa’s security system and new locks. He closed his eyes when he saw the amount. New York prices.

  After a few minutes, he got up and walked over to Stretch’s cubicle.

  “I’m talking to Othmann,” Joe said.

  Stretch stopped typing. “Is that a good idea?”

  “He’s a viable suspect. I need to get a line on him. See if he’s good for this.”

  “He’s not. He was just starting his art empire when Edgerton went missing. There’s no way he had the balls back then to snuff a congressman. Today? Maybe. But not back then. You’re chasing your tail.”

  “I only have a few leads. This is one.”

  Stretch lowered his voice. “Don’t stir up more shit, especially with Sadi. Let Dale give it to someone else. Focus on getting a new job.”

  This wasn’t like Stretch. Usually, he did the life-coach thing, pushing Joe into action, telling him to grab life in a headlock. Even Stretch had lost faith in Joe’s ability to do the job.

  “I won’t discuss your case,” Joe said.

  “Othmann’s not someone to mess with. He’s got money, and that gives him some pull in the state. If he takes it personal, he could make it difficult for you to find a job.”

  “I doubt it. My job prospects right now are so far below his level of influence that the only way our paths might cross is if he drives through an intersection where I’m hawking oranges.”

  “Sadi’s going to be pissed. Hell, I’m pissed.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes,” Joe said. He had expected Stretch to be more supportive.

  He walked away. Back at his desk, Joe picked up the phone and called Professor Trudle.

  OCTOBER 4

  MONDAY, 12:18 P.M.

  OTHMANN ESTATE, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  The massive oak front door at Othmann’s estate was probably meant to intimidate visitors. Rising to almost eight feet, and more than wide enough to allow a small car to pass through, it communicated money and security. Below a small etched-glass window in the center of the door hung a large, brass Indian head. Joe lifted its swinging brass thumper and let it fall. A dull clank rang out.

  “You think he’ll talk to us?” Professor Trudle asked.

  “I don’t see why not. He’ll be curious to know what we want.”

  “Can we do good cop, bad cop?” the professor asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I left my rubber hose in the car,” Joe said. “Maybe next time.” The professor had been joking, but there’d been a twang of desire in his voice.

  Metal clinked and the massive door opened, revealing a blocky blond bull. David “Books” Drud. Joe recognized him from his mug shot in the file.

  Books studied Joe and Trudle and then looked past them to the two cars in the circular driveway. The Tahoe would speak cop, but the professor’s Saab had only one language, and cop wasn’t part of its vernacular.

  “Yeah?” Books’s voice was deep but not menacing.

  Joe showed his credentials. “I’d like to talk with Mr. Othmann.”

  “And who are you?” the bull said, looking at Trudle.

  Joe answered for him. “He’s with me.”

  Books met Joe’s eyes. A stare-down.

  “Wait here.”

  Joe pressed his palm against the closing door. “How about we wait inside?”

  “No.” The door closed.

  “Are people always so rude to cops?” Trudle asked.

  “This guy’s not so much rude as he is smart. He knows we have no right to enter without a warrant. He’s letting us know that he knows.”

  While they waited for the big man to return, Joe’s phone rang: Sadi. Stretch must have told her. Joe powered off the phone. He knew she wouldn’t stop calling.

  The door opened. “Come in.”

  They followed Books through a huge grand room decorated with sculptures, pottery, and wall-hung rugs. Joe knew nothing about what he saw. That was Trudle’s department. The reason Joe had brought him.

  Books opened a door and stood to the side, waiting for Joe and the professor to enter.

  “After you,” Joe said.

  Another stare-down.

  Books grinned. Either way, he had won. If he had gotten behind Joe, he would have been in a dominant position if things went bad. Since Joe made a fuss about having him go first, he knew he made Joe uncomfortable.

  A trim man in a light, flowing shirt and breezy pants approached Joe, hand outstretched. He looked more like a Jimmy Buffett disciple than a desert art collector.

  “I’m Arthur Othmann. Welcome to my own little Xanadu.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” Joe said.

  Trudle walked around, inspecting the contents of the museum-quality cabinets that lined the room.

  “You have an incredible collection,” Joe said. “Perhaps we can have a tour when we finish?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll have my assistant, David, show you around.”

  Books offered Joe a cocky grin, like a hunter spotting a lame buck.

  “Now, what’s this all about? What can I do for the BIA?”

  “If it’s the same with you, it would be better if we spoke alone.”

  Othmann angled his body to face Trudle. “Does the same go for the professor?”

  “He’s helping me with a case,” Joe said. “How did you know he was a professor?”

  Othmann turned away, walking toward his desk. “Well, for one, he doesn’t look like a cop.”

  “But how did you know he was a professor?”

  Trudle became interested and stopped examining the cabinets.

  Books took another step into the room.

  Othmann stood behind his desk, his hands resting on the back of his chair.

  “I believe I’ve seen Professor Trudle at one or two events over the years.” He turned to the professor. “And I’ve read one of your books.”

  “Which one?” Trudle asked.

  Othmann waved his hand toward the two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. “Not one of your better ones, I’m sure.”

  “And him?” Joe said.

  “David, I’ll call you when we’re done.”

  Books left, closing the door behind him.

  As Joe and Trudle approached the desk to take a seat, the professor nodded toward the cabinets on the opposite wall. Joe had no idea what the professor was trying to tell him, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

  Joe had debated trying to build rapport, the first step in most interviews. Get the person comfortable. Help him to drop his guard. But he’d decided that would be a waste of time. By all accounts, Othmann was smart. Joe would simply try to interpret the art collector’s responses and hope for him to slip up. A confession would be unlikely, especially if he was innocent.

  “I’d like to talk to you about Congressman Arlen Edgerton.”

  Othmann tilted his head, his attention flickering from Joe to Trudle and back to Joe. “What makes you think I know anything about the congressman?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Do you?”

  Othmann’s gaze still wandered; the man was refusing to look directly at Joe. Perhaps he, too, had exp
ected some rapport building.

  “I read the papers, Agent Evers,” Othmann said. “I know his vehicle was recently found on the reservation. Of course, I also know Grace Edgerton is running for governor. I hope you’re not here because I’m supporting her opponent?”

  Othmann liked to answer questions with questions.

  “Your politics are your politics,” Joe said, then stopped. “How did you know my name?”

  The easy self-confidence the art collector had conveyed earlier faltered. “You introduced yourself when you came in.”

  “Did you know I was coming today?”

  “Agent, I don’t know anything about any of this. I’m sure you introduced yourself when you came in here.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Professor Trudle said. “I remember. He didn’t.”

  “My assistant must have told me the agent’s name.” He looked again at Joe. “And if I’m not mistaken, I believe you made the news last year.”

  Joe had made the news last year, but it wasn’t headlines. A Metro D-2 filler. Joe and his squad had found the story, but they’d been looking for it. At the time, it had seemed like breaking news to Joe. But now, on reflection, it had amounted to little more than a classified ad, and the notoriety lasted only slightly longer.

  “How could you possibly remember that?”

  “I have an exceptional memory. It was something about a case being thrown out because of an issue with key evidence. Am I right?”

  “Something like that. But it wasn’t thrown out. We lost.” In his peripheral vision, Joe saw Trudle looking at him. “I don’t believe you just happened to remember my name from a blurb in a newspaper almost a year ago. I think you knew I was coming here to talk to you.” William Tom must have called ahead.

  Othmann didn’t reply. Joe had made a mistake. Othmann had been a little loose with his talk earlier, obviously judging Joe to be a little inept, maybe even an idiot. By challenging the arrogant bastard, he’d given him pause and put him on guard. But maybe it wasn’t too late to play the bumbling detective.

  “Sorry, I’m a little defensive about that whole fiasco last year. That case wasn’t my best moment.”

  The corner of Othmann’s lip curled into a smile. Joe had humbled himself. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t. You were asking how I knew Arlen Edgerton. In answer to that, I didn’t. I never met him. Never spoke to him. Never shared a scotch with him. Never voted for him.”

  “How did you feel about the bill he was working on before he disappeared? A bill to protect Native American antiquities.”

  “I didn’t know he was working on such a bill.” Othmann raised his hands to his chest and interlaced his fingers. His face brightened as though a lightbulb were shining over it. “Oh, I understand now. You thought because I collect native art that I had something to do with his disappearance. Is that it? I was protecting my interests?”

  “Something like that,” Joe said.

  “Well, if that is all you want to know, then let me save you some time. I had nothing to do with his disappearance. I think the papers said he disappeared in 1988. Back then, I had no idea what the government was doing to regulate native antiquities. And, frankly, I wasn’t interested. And I’m still not. I buy from artists and other collectors. I never give the government a second thought … except for the taxes, of course.”

  “Did you ever buy anything from William Tom?” Professor Trudle asked.

  “President of the Navajo Nation?”

  “Former president,” Joe said.

  “Why would I buy anything from him?” Othmann asked.

  “That wasn’t the question. The professor asked if you ever did.”

  “No. Not that I can recall.”

  A qualified answer.

  “So you might have?” Joe said.

  Othmann licked his lips before answering. “I’ve purchased lots of things over the years. Many, many things. I cannot be sure who I bought them all from.”

  Joe wanted to remind him of his exceptional memory but didn’t.

  Professor Trudle shifted in his seat. “So, you’re telling me you can’t remember if you bought something from the president of the Navajo Nation?”

  “He wasn’t always the president. And who’s asking the questions? Is UNM now doing investigations into missing congressmen? I’m getting a little annoyed at the accusations. Should I have a lawyer present, Agent Evers?”

  “Mr. Othmann, I’m looking into Edgerton’s disappearance. Professor Trudle is assisting me with the antiquities-protection angle.” Joe looked at the professor. “I’m the one asking the questions.” He let his gaze linger so Trudle would get the message.

  “Then ask,” Othmann said.

  “I came across information that you had purchased a number of items from William Tom some years ago. I would like to talk to you about those items and about William Tom.”

  “If you say you know I bought some items from him, then why don’t you tell me what they are and maybe that will jog my memory.”

  Othmann was testing Joe. No doubt he wanted to see what Joe knew. “Perhaps we can look through some purchase records.”

  “I don’t keep records going back too many years. How long ago was this supposed purchase?”

  Trudle leaned forward. “Oh, come on. Every collector keeps records. You own a gallery. That’s how you prove provenance.”

  “Professor,” Joe said.

  “Half of your collection would be worthless without a record of the artist,” Trudle said. “You couldn’t even prove it was Native American.”

  Joe put a hand on Trudle’s shoulder. “Professor!”

  Trudle relaxed. He folded his hands in his lap. “Sorry.”

  “We’re interested in some old pottery,” Joe said. “Eight or nine hundred years old. Purchased from William Tom in 1988.”

  Othmann lifted his gaze toward the ceiling: a good imitation of a man thinking.

  A few moments earlier, when Trudle had started his tirade, Joe had watched the art collector. What he’d seen was a composed face, somewhat like that of a patient father allowing a young child to vent, but below that was something nebulous, something dark, a soul void of virtue. Joe could see it in his eyes. Othmann was mentally disturbed. Most cops knew the look. It almost always came through in the eyes. A crazy person might be able to hide it, even act rationally most of the time, but given a stressful situation, the pressure builds and the craziness surfaces. Any decent investigator could spot it instantly, a mental problem peeking through sanity’s curtained windows. Othmann was a sociopath. On the surface, he acted like any other person, but below that facade of normalcy, he was an emotionless creature concerned only with his own needs and desires. Compassion and humanity were foreign to him. Joe did not get all this from these few moments of observation. Mostly it came from his file. Between that and what he had just seen, there was no doubt Othmann was dangerous.

  “I’m sorry, Agent Evers, I don’t recall buying anything like that from William Tom,” Othmann said. “But I will see if I have any records from back then. If there’s nothing else, I am scheduled for a phone conference in a few minutes.”

  “That will be fine. I’ll stop by later this week to see if you found anything.”

  “I’ll call you.” Othmann pressed a button on his phone, and a moment later Books walked into the room. “David will see you out.”

  They stood and made their way to the door.

  “One last question,” Joe said. “How often do you travel down to Mexico?”

  “Rarely. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you know a Cedro Bartolome?”

  “Should I?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Othmann,” Joe said. “Do you think we can have that tour now?”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “I couldn’t help noticing the Navajo Yei mask,” Professor Trudle said.

  Joe and Othmann both turned t
o face the professor, who stood before a display case, holding his phone. He pointed to an object behind the glass. “It’s beautiful. Is it authentic?”

  “I wouldn’t waste shelf space on a fake.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  OCTOBER 4

  MONDAY, 1:16 P.M.

  OTHMANN ESTATE, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” Trudle said. “I couldn’t help it. He was lying. There is no way he doesn’t have records. No collector neglects his record keeping.”

  They stood by their vehicles, in front of the Othmann mansion, discussing what had just happened. Joe surveyed the residence. The structure was Pueblo Revival style, with a flat roof and projecting wooden beams known as vigas, which, most of the time, were only decorative and served no structural purpose. The tan adobe of the building blended nicely with the surrounding desert tones. The grounds around the residence were well kept. Othmann surely used landscapers. But they wouldn’t know what went on inside.

  “Othmann’s got a pretty big place,” Joe said. “He must have a maid or a cook, right?”

  Trudle’s expression showed his confusion. “I’m sure he does, but there’s no way they live here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Would you want to be locked up in a house with those two?”

  Trudle had a point. Joe changed the subject. “Did you see any of the items from your dig?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t be sure. Some of the stuff we saw is old enough to be from the same time period, but I didn’t recognize any of the designs.”

  “It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting to find anything.”

  “Then why bring me along?”

  “It was worth a shot. You know what you’re looking at. To me, all that stuff was just old pottery and artwork.”

  “There was something.” Trudle took out his phone. “The Navajo Yei mask.” He brought up the picture, then handed it to Joe.