Rock with Wings (Leaphorn & Chee #20)
Anne Hillerman
Dedication
In memory of my mother, Marie. She gave me the title for this book . . .
And in memory of Cindy Bellinger. She gave me simple, sage advice
on how to finish ROCK WITH WINGS: Keep writing!
1
Officer Bernadette Manuelito had been sitting in her unit by the side of the road for an hour, watching the last of the twilight fade and the pinpoints of stars appear in the blue-gray sky. In that time she had seen two vehicles, both with the classic yellow-and-red New Mexico plates with the Zia symbol in the center. The gray Subaru advanced at close to the speed limit, with no signs of driver impairment. The old green Buick cruised along more leisurely, with the windows rolled down and country music flowing into the night air. She knew the car and the driver and knew he was headed home after a long shift at the Four Corners Power Plant. If he’d had a beer or two, his driving didn’t show it.
After that burst of activity, things slowed down.
Bernie climbed out of her unit to stretch her legs, enjoying the scents of summer in the cooling air. This sort of assignment, if she was lucky, involved hours of monotony punctuated by a bit of routine traffic work. If she wasn’t lucky, violence or the threat of it shattered the boredom. The challenge, and the secret to survival, was to stay alert without getting paranoid.
Over the police radio she learned that sheriff’s deputies, New Mexico State Police, and BIA officers also assigned to help with this drug intercept operation were snacking, gazing at the moon, and shooting the breeze. Those fortunate enough to be waiting where their cell phones worked might be chatting with friends or sending texts.
The drug bust was a bust so far, but the night was still young.
Bernie climbed back into her Ford SUV and was listening to an audiobook with her purple earbuds when she saw headlights approaching. The big silver car with a white Arizona plate flashed toward her, speeding past her through the junction. Pulling onto the pavement behind it, she clocked the car at fifteen miles over the speed limit—a lot for this twisting, narrow road. She radioed dispatch with her location and the plate number, then switched on her light bar. After about two minutes, she saw the flash of brake lights in front of her.
Good.
Traffic stops made her nervous, especially at night. After a certain hour, she knew the odds that the driver was drunk or on drugs increased. This driver didn’t seem intoxicated, though. At least, nothing she’d seen so far made her suspect it.
The car ahead—a Chevy Malibu, she could see now—slowed and pulled over at a wide spot on the shoulder. Bernie slipped in behind it, leaving her light bar and headlights on to warn oncoming motorists. She radioed in again with her location. Before she got out to talk to the driver, she turned on the dash cam switch. The feds stressed that every possible arrest had to be recorded.
The machine stayed dormant. Bernie turned it off, and then clicked it again. This time, thankfully, the green record light blinked. She clipped on the microphone and reached for her flashlight.
As she walked toward the Chevy, she could see one shape in the front seat, illuminated by her headlights. There was no one in the back. The driver lowered the window, and she felt a wave of chilled air flow past her from inside the car. Bernie shone the flashlight onto his face. His eyes looked normal. His hands were on the steering wheel. Not a Navajo, he was in his thirties, clean-shaven, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a black baseball cap with a wolf logo. She moved the light past him for a quick scan of the front seat. No visible weapons, only work gloves, sunglasses, and a dark leather case that looked like it might hold a camera or binoculars. Nothing suspicious.
“Sir, please turn off the engine. No reason to waste the gas. May I have your license, registration, and proof of insurance?”
He killed the engine, squirmed a bit to reach into his back pocket, and pulled out a brown leather wallet. He handed her an Arizona driver’s license with a photo that matched his appearance. His hand stayed steady. So far, so good.
She waited for him to reach for the glove box, the place most people kept the other documents she needed, but he sat staring straight ahead. She read the name on the license.
“Mr. Miller, would you show me the car’s registration and proof of insurance?”
Miller didn’t respond. Beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the veins on the back of his hands stood out. Both her training and her intuition told Bernie to proceed with care.
She spoke louder. “Mr. Miller, my camera here is recording our conversation. We do that for our mutual protection. Have you consumed any alcohol or drugs today?”
“No. No, ma’am.”
“Sir, I need to see the car’s registration and proof of insurance.”
“The papers are, um, in the glove box. But so you’ll know, I have a gun in there too.”
His breath didn’t carry the smell of beer or liquor. He shifted away from her, leaning toward the glove box and reaching with his right hand.
“Don’t.” Bernie raised her voice. Telling, not asking. “Sir, roll down the window on the passenger side.”
He pushed a button, and the window lowered.
“Do you have any weapons on you? Another gun, a knife, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Please get out of the car and walk around with me so we can get the gun and the papers I asked for.”
She heard the click of his seat belt releasing. The interior light came on when he opened the car door. He was about five foot six, with a slight build, though a bit heavier than the 150 pounds stated on his license. He wore a tan long-sleeved shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots.
The man walked ahead of her around the front of the car to the passenger side, the light from her headlights helping them negotiate the rough dirt on the shoulder. He moved without any swaying or wobbling. No obvious signs of impairment.
“Is the glove box locked?”
“No.”
“I’m going to open it and remove the gun.” She looked at him. “Is it loaded?”
“Of course. Why else—” He didn’t finish the sentence.
She reached in and felt the catch, clicked the box open. A light flickered on, and she saw a dark green plastic case, the kind that might have an owner’s manual packed inside. The gun lay next to it. She removed it and left the compartment door open.
“Mr. Miller, it is illegal to have a loaded gun in a vehicle on the Navajo reservation.”
He shrugged and said nothing.
“Now I need you to get the papers I asked for.”
He reached for the case, opened it, and handed her the insurance card and registration.