The Collector

by R. Allen Chappell

  Charlie was quiet for a moment then nodded. “Fred, I can assure you Billy Red Clay is as trustworthy a person as you’ll find in law enforcement. He’s been upset lately, thinking you’ve lost confidence in him as Liaison Officer.” The Investigator didn’t look away when he said, “He’ll be happy to learn that’s not the case, and I’m sure he’ll be happier yet to hear he’s not ‘under the gun,’ as he puts it. I don’t know anyone more capable of handling that position. Fred…you can’t go wrong with Billy.”

  The agent broke into a smile “I was hoping you’d say something like that. Billy’s well liked among our people in the Farmington office and he’s done a good job over these last months. I’ll have a chat with him later today.” With that Fred Smith picked up his hat, and with nothing further to say, gave a parting wave of his hand and made his way to the cash register. The Investigator noticed the FBI man had picked up the tab. Frowning, he wished then he’d ordered the cinnamon roll; he couldn’t recall anyone at the Bureau ever picking up the tab before.

  Charlie watched through the front window as the federal agent crossed the parking lot. It seemed Fred carried himself a little straighter than when he came in. The investigator could only hope their talk about Billy Red Clay had lightened his load.

  Fred hadn’t indicated exactly what sort of security problem the Bureau was having—leaving Charlie to assume it might still have something to do with cases right there on the reservation. It was a thought that left him thinking Fred might have other suspects as well. He wondered if Carla was one of them.

  12

  The Calling

  Carla settled into her morning—going through a list of prominent collectors that might have an interest in the work of Lucy Tallwoman. For the next few days she would have the use of the office next to Fred Smith’s. A small office with no window, but an accommodation she appreciated, nonetheless. It beat working out of a hotel room and had the advantage of a secure phone and Teletype facilities. It would only be available until Fred’s junior agent returned from a training seminar—already scheduled before all hell broke loose in the Johnson murder. She’d have a few days yet, sufficient to wrap up her end of the investigation. Louise Johnson’s disappearance had thrown everyone a curve. Some thought the woman might be on the run now, though there was precious little proof of that one way or the other.

  Carla had just hung up the phone when Fred stuck his head in the door. “Have everything you need?”

  “Yes I do, thanks. I appreciate it, too.”

  “Carla, do you have a minute? I’ve just had word from the Albuquerque office regarding a killing down there. They think the guy is a gallery owner you might know something about.”

  She frowned. “Come on in, Fred. I’m ready for a coffee break anyway. Couldn’t sleep last night…party going on next door.”

  “That’s an oilfield town for you…it’s a 24/7 business…and no sleep for the wicked.” He grinned. “I’ll grab a couple of cups…be right back.”

  Carla started to protest, but he was gone. She cleared her desk, pausing a moment to stare at the vacationing agent’s family photo. He was a nice looking young man with a pretty wife and two handsome children. She felt a momentary pang of regret. But then Fred was back balancing a tray with two cups and the fixings.

  “Cream and sugar I’m guessing?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Fred pulled up a chair and watched as Carla dumped a half-spoon of sugar in one of the cups and creamed it to caramel.

  The Senior Agent took his black.

  “So, who’s this person they think I might know?” She took an unladylike slurp off the top of the still steaming cup and grinned.

  Fred smiled. “His name’s Raul Ortiz, scion of the redoubtable Santa Fe Ortiz bunch, longtime pain in the… side…of the local authorities. The family’s sketchy reputation goes all the way back to the early nineteen- hundreds—or so I’m told. One or the other of them came across our radar a couple of times when I was a newbie starting out down in Albuquerque.”

  Carla nodded. “I ran across Ortiz as a Bureau consultant on an art theft case…this was some time back.” She pursed her lips in recollection. “I was able to track the pieces back to several of his people. Every one of them went down without a whimper, and without incriminating any of the higher ups either. About par for the course from what I later discovered. Raul himself has never been charged with anything beyond a parking ticket.” She grimaced. “Even those tickets never came to court. Whatever else Raul was, he was no amateur. Whoever took him out was not your average player.”

  Fred Smith wagged a finger in the air. “Ah, but there’s more…earlier that same day an ex-cop, Big Ray Danson, was found dead in a Lincoln Town Car outside an Albuquerque motel. Not just strangled, but rather death by garrote. Not a pleasant way to go, from what I understand.”

  “Ouch! I would guess not. Any idea who was responsible for that little coup? The same person as Raul’s killer maybe?”

  “Good guess. Our people down there say there could very well be a connection. Big Ray’s car was registered to an LLC owned by…guess who?”

  “Raul Ortiz?”

  “Close. His brother Bobby, who of course, had reported the car stolen only hours earlier.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Yes, it was. You would think such clever people would be smart enough to make an honest living without putting themselves through all this drama.”

  “Ah, but that might take all the fun out of it, you know…going by the rules and all. I read that somewhere—in a criminology class, as I recall. When you stop and think about it, it’s really the only thing that makes any sense.” Carla shook her head.

  Fred chuckled and allowed she might be right. “So, what did you wind up learning about Raul?”

  “First, let me preface the answer with a little background. On the East Coast, there’s a small but very active group of collectors that have become responsible for the bulk of the high-dollar sales in the Southwestern Art world. We call them The Factors. They pretty much dictate the price of what’s going through the auction houses. As a consultant for several New York galleries I’ve come to know some of those people, and learned a lot in the process, mostly about the mechanics of marketing and, of course, a few of the many subterfuges that go along with it. Like any big-money pursuit, the art world has long been known to attract a certain shady element.” Carla stopped and had a sip of her coffee. “Raul Ortiz was a name that popped up often enough to rate a closer look. He seemed to know everyone in the business. It turns out his real expertise was acquiring hard to find antiquities—with or without the provenance to make them legal. He’s one of those ‘shadow’ characters the authorities know are involved but can never seem to charge with anything that will hold up in court. He was also known to provide skilled professionals, specialists, not particular in how they applied those skills.” Carla gave the Senior Agent a knowing look.

  Fred nodded but didn’t interrupt her story.

  A hard-edged glimpse of satisfaction flitted across the woman’s face. “From what you say, something finally did catch up with him. He was due…and that’s a fact.”

  The comment caught Fred off-guard. He nodded thoughtfully but kept his thoughts to himself, and later left Carla’s office thinking he had learned something—but maybe more about Carla, than Raul. The woman had the rare ability to leave statements open to a certain ambiguity of interpretation. In his opinion she probably would have made a good lawyer.

  13

  Desperado

  So now it had fallen to him. There was a time, in the beginning, when Archie did this sort of work on a regular basis, not trusting to farm it out. But now Percy thought he was above that—should no longer be involved in the rougher end of the business. He had become indispensable, was the way Percy had put it. That’s why Raul Ortiz had been engaged to provide an operative. Archie had protested the move from the beginning—saying the stakes were too high—he would prefer to
do it himself, but the Factor had been adamant.

  So, here they were with a job half done, and even that done poorly. Regardless what Percy might think, there was now only one thing to be done about it. On such short notice there was no one else to call on. Archie was well aware he might be pushing his luck with the Factor by taking this upon himself, and that bothered him.

  Percival Vermeer was known to take great pains, in exhausting every reasonable alternative before unleashing his hounds. In the end, however, he would have his way, no matter what. He liked to think he was the one masterminding each little stage of a project, but that was just Percy. Eventually it always came down to Archie. The Factor simply didn’t have the street smarts…or the belly, for what they were up against now.

  Archie Blumker had known Clifford and Louise Johnson for a while now and had approached them on Percy’s behalf on several different occasions. The trader was an odd duck and trusted only clients he had worked with for years—most of those transactions probably involving a good bit of under-the-table cash—not unusual in the Indian trade.

  Archie had used up every resource at his disposal. Though this was something he was usually very good at, he had so far drawn a blank when it came to locating Louise. The frustration was beginning to wear on him. Finding people who didn’t want to be found had long been his forte: Raul Ortiz could attest to that…had he still been around to do so.

  The good news was, Archie saw little reason to suspect foul play in Louise’s disappearance. To all appearances she had simply gone missing and considering what happened to her husband he could well understand that. She was alone now, vulnerable, and most likely afraid; she would not be inclined to trust anyone. Louise Johnson needed a friend, and should he find her, Archie intended to be that friend. Being the pragmatist that he was, however, he admitted there was a very real possibility the woman knew exactly what she was doing and for whatever reason had simply made a run for it. From all accounts she could certainly afford it, and whether she had the coded list or not, she might never willingly turn up. In that case he would prove to be her worst nightmare.

  When he first met Louise, he had gone so far as to speak privately with the woman, hoping to draw her out as a possible conduit to Clifford. Archie was not without charm when need be and expended considerable energy in that direction. The woman would only say her husband kept the particulars of his business to himself, especially when it came to clients. Her story was she did the books using coded information, for which only Clifford had the key. Archie, not destitute of hope, had his ace in the hole and as every gambler knows that can make all the difference should the stars align.

  His other assignment was going somewhat better. It hadn’t been hard to locate Lucy Tallwoman’s camp and he had spent the early part of the morning out on a high point above their new house. It had been a rough climb coming in from the ragged end of the hogback—several miles from the highway—almost straight up for the first mile or so. His topo-maps had shown an easier way in: going cross-country from the west, but that way was most likely deep in mud from the recent rains and probably hours longer if it could be done at all.

  Archie kept himself in excellent physical condition but was gasping for air as he topped the ridge and began easing out above the Begays’ place. Everything appeared to be quiet down in the camp. Testing the breeze, he figured he would be downwind of a dog. He was almost certain they had one. He’d not seen a family without a dog in all his time in this country. He cautiously picked his way toward a venerable old shaggy bark cedar, considerably taller than the scatter of smaller junipers around it and on the very brink overlooking the camp. Close to the trunk he found himself fully concealed next to a conveniently low-slung limb, a perfect rest for his binoculars.

  It was still dark when he had started out from the Chevy, but now the sun was peeping over the mesa east of the highway. He watched through his glasses as an old man came from the hogan behind the house. Holding his arms to the first bloody rays of the sun he appeared to be singing. Archie thought he could hear him, something in Navajo, just a hint of the song, bits and snatches of it carried on a chilly breeze. He couldn’t be certain but thought it some sort of greeting to the sun.

  The sheep stirred in their pens and the previously missing dog appeared, barking as he ran to threaten the leaders away from the gates. The black and white male stopped every few yards, turning back toward the old man with a yip, urging him down from the hogan. The canine was well aware the old man wouldn’t come before having his coffee, but that didn’t keep him from trying. The old man disappeared inside, leaving the dog waiting at the pens, one eye on the silent house and growing more anxious as the minutes passed. In the dog’s mind, it was important to reassert control over these sheep each morning. They were animals notorious for their short memories.

  Archie stayed at his post nearly half an hour, watching. A younger man and two children, a boy and a girl, left the main house and got in a diesel pickup to head down to the highway and the school bus stop. Another truck was left in the yard and Archie rightly surmised it belonged to Lucy Tallwoman. His own truck was well hidden behind a shale hillock and well down the highway—not likely to be seen by anyone on their way out.

  Archie thought it interesting these people still lived in much the same way they had for nearly a millennium: herdsmen, small family compounds separated by the great distances required for stock to survive in so harsh a land. For most there were few modern conveniences even in these modern times. Archie had to smile at the television antenna guyed off the chimney of the wood stove. A thin curl of smoke rose in the morning air to drift his way. There was a certain curious charm in it all that tugged at his sensibilities. Will these people ever assimilate—become like everyone else? He hoped not. There were few enough natural humans left on the planet.

  He watched through the binoculars as the old man came out drinking his coffee, and then saw him wait at the side of the house until the others left. Archie knew Lucy’s father lived with them and felt certain this was him. The old Navajo was dressed in a light jacket and carried something in a small pouch slung from a shoulder, his lunch perhaps.

  The old man signaled to the dog as he opened the gates and watched as he forced the sheep from their bedding grounds—nipping at the laggards but seldom barking. Then it was up the trail to the hogback to the west. Eventually the sound of their bells and calling of the lambs faded to silence broken only by a soft soughing of the wind.

  Archie rested there at the tree, taking it all in, committing the camp to memory as best he could. Leaning against the cedar his attention was drawn to a small hole, no bigger than a tennis ball, in the rough trunk of the tree. It was just about eye level, impossible to miss really. He wondered idly if it might not be home to some small creature, though what that might be he couldn’t imagine. He eyed the cavity as he considered the possibilities, a chipmunk maybe, that would be about the right size. He couldn’t recall those little ground squirrels frequenting holes in trees. But then who knew what an enterprising chipmunk might do given the proper incentive. The sun was in his face now, warming the scent of those young cedar and pinion left up here. He could see where many of the mature trees had long ago been cut down and likely pitched off the edge to be gathered down below for firewood.

  Hearing the sound of bells Archie looked to the north and concentrated. The band of sheep had changed direction. Were they coming closer? He listened intently and far off though it was, he was certain now they were headed his way. He had thought the old man might be taking them farther upcountry but apparently not; he was instead bringing them across a switchback and in Archie’s direction. He sighed, took out the gum he had been chewing and idly stuck it near the hole in the tree, then slinging the binoculars over his shoulder he turned and silently worked his way back the way he had come. It wouldn’t do to be spotted so early in the game.

  ~~~~~~

  The dog eased the band into the clearing back of the point, and settled them
loosely bunched on the fresh grass. Paul T’Sosi favored the dog with an approving glance before making his way to a favorite resting spot. From there both the home place and the flock could be watched. He approached the vantage point with a careful eye to the path, rocky and strewn with downed limbs.

  Almost to the old cedar tree, Paul was surprised to come across fresh tracks leading in from the south. Prints he didn’t recognize and different from the ones he’d spotted previously. He knew the footwear of everyone in the family—an old habit people in that country form early on—to help them keep track of family members. He bent to touch the edge of the impression. It was not yet crumbling or anywhere near dry. Someone, a man by the size of the prints, had been there maybe only minutes before. Raising his head, the old man frowned and cautiously investigated the way forward.

  There were only two reasonable ways to reach this place; the trail Paul had come from the camp, and an abandoned branch off an oil field road to the head of the sand wash and that far to the West. That would leave a long hike in rough country to reach the hogback. After the recent rains that particular route would be out of the question. There was yet an unlikely third option; a barely discernable trail that pitched off the south side of the ridge, an old and dangerously steep trail, now all but forgotten. That trail had washed out over the years and only someone unfamiliar with the country would choose it.