Turner scowled. “I don’t know anything about this. What do you want from me, man? We’re behind schedule, over budget. I don’t have time for this stuff.”
“Someone takes pictures as part of the site scouting. If you have a photo that shows the grave was there when you guys first came, no problem. Easier for us is better for you. Otherwise, things get complicated, people start talking homicide investigation.”
Turner made a sound, a sort of a snort. “My assistant and I took photos all over the place. I didn’t see a grave. We stayed in the Jeep, didn’t do much walking around. It was March, freezing cold. And now it’s hotter than Hades.”
Chee heard the frustration but said nothing.
“Look, if there’s any problem with permits or stuff like that, Delahart is the man to talk to. He’s where the buck stops. Not with me or even Robinson.” Turner stood.
Chee stood, too. He remembered what he’d learned about dealing calmly with difficult people. “My boss wants me to get this settled. If you don’t have the photos, then I guess you and I need to drive out there together so you can see what I’m talking about. That might refresh your memory. The drive, and hiking to the gravesite, driving back, that’s at least an hour.” Chee looked down, then raised his gaze. “Longer, probably, because you’ll have a hard time getting traction in those shoes, and the heat will slow you down.”
Chee knew that Turner wanted to argue, so he kept talking. “That is, unless you don’t want to cooperate with this friendly investigation. In that case, you’ll probably need to go to Phoenix, or maybe it’s Salt Lake, to explain to the federal court why the Navajo Nation is wrong to view what we’ve found as an illegal burial and fine your company for desecrating sovereign land.”
Now he had Turner’s attention.
“But if you could remember where the scouting photos are, and I can take a look at them and see that the grave was there and had nothing to do with your operation, that would save us both a long, hot afternoon hike or a lot of complicated paperwork. And you won’t have to change your shoes.”
“Give me fifteen, twenty minutes. Wait here, and I’ll have a girl bring them over.”
“A girl?”
“My assistant. Claudia. An intern.”
Chee nodded.
“Fifteen minutes.”
He watched the crowd. Why the eternal fascination with zombies, werewolves, vampires, ghosts, mummies, aliens from other planets, giant mutant creatures of all sorts? He’d take a good action movie any day, especially with a car chase that involved aerials and explosions.
Melissa interrupted his daydreaming. “Hey there. Are you now the official zombie officer?”
“Looks that way.” Chee explained his errand.
“Want to join me for something to eat while you wait? I’m starved.”
“Coffee would be good.”
He followed Melissa through the food line. The aromas made him hungry, but he hoped to leave as soon as he got the pictures. He selected Guatemalan Atitlán from the fancy push-button coffee machine because Melissa recommended it. Next time, he’d try a double café noisette—whatever that might be—because the name made him smile.
Melissa set her tray with a boiled egg and a single piece of toast on a table close to the buffet line, and Chee settled in across from her. “I’m glad I ran into you. What can you tell me about Turner and Mr. Delahart?”
“Delahart? Don’t tell me—he’s in trouble?”
“Not that I know of. I keep hearing his name.”
“Delahart’s the big boss, the producer, the man who authorizes the checks. He doesn’t associate with us underlings except to give us grief about spending too much money.”
“I thought Robinson ran things.”
“Well, Delahart is the big boss, but Greg—uh, Mr. Robinson—does the work. He’s an associate producer, and does a good job of running interference for us with Delahart. Turner works under Robinson.”
She was almost pretty when she smiled, Chee thought. The turquoise in her earrings was close to the color of her eyes. “I might need to talk to Delahart about the grave. Is he here?”
She shook her head. “He’s too important to be with us peons.”
“Seems like he’d want to see what’s going on, if he’s paying the bills.”
“Actually, I pay the bills. He signs off on them, but I don’t think he even read the reports or looked at the statements until recently. He’d rather dabble in PR, mostly posting stuff about Rhonda’s new hairstyle or what she had for breakfast. Social media trivia for the trivially minded.” She made a dismissive cluck and shook her head. “Delahart won’t tell you anything about the grave. He probably couldn’t even tell you what state we’re in. He likes that air-conditioned room at the Inn better than the glory of Monument Valley. That makes him weird, in my book.”
Chee took another sip of the Guatemalan coffee, savoring it. It was delicious, possibly even better than the coffee Bernie made.
“I don’t see how you can drink coffee on such a hot day.” She jiggled the ice cubes in her cup.
Chee asked the question Tsinnie had prompted. “How did you find that spot on Rabbit Ridge? It was perfect for the moon between those monuments.”
“It wasn’t really me being smart. Or even good luck. Mike suggested it.”
“Mike?”
“Turner. I thought you’d met him.”
“Oh, yeah. I talked to him. Did he tell you how to find it?”
“Drew me a map. I tried to get him to go with me. He’s worried about the production schedule, and all that wind last week really slowed us down. Expenses have climbed, and some sponsorships I thought we’d land haven’t come in yet.”
A young woman in black jeans walked to their table. “Are you Officer Chee? Mr. Turner told me to give this to you.” She handed him a flash drive and a business card. “He said to tell you if you have any more questions, please contact Mr. Delahart. That’s his card.”
“Did he really say please?”
The young woman looked surprised. “No, sir. That sounded better than what he said.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
He’d expected printed photographs he could thumb through quickly, not another session back in the office at a computer. He put the device in his pocket, said good-bye to Melissa, and walked out into the heat.