It would be hours before the June warmth reached its peak, and much longer before the day cooled off. The sun made the handle on his unit’s door so hot he could barely open it. He slid gingerly across the too-warm seat, turned on the ignition and the air con. Gerald waved as he drove away.
Back at the station, Chee plugged the portable drive into a computer and waited as a long thread of images appeared on the screen, reminding him that sometimes computers and their kin, an inescapable part of modern law enforcement, actually made his job easier. He enlarged them and sorted out a subset that showed the landscape near the gravesite, finding scouting shots similar to the view Melissa had photographed from the ridge but nothing that looked remotely like a grave. Great, he thought. The grave had not existed when the movie company came to scout, and now it did. Case almost closed.
He called Delahart’s cell number again, with another diversion to voice mail. Then he called the Inn and asked for Delahart’s room. The person who answered spoke with what sounded to Chee like an East Coast accent. “Delahart here.”
Chee introduced himself. “I need to talk to you about an investigation that concerns the movie production.”
“Talk to Robinson, the honcho out there. I’ll give you the number.”
“I’ve already spoken to him, and to Mr. Turner. They told me you were the only one who could provide the information I need. This involves publicity.”
Chee heard a round of coughing on the other end of the phone. Then Delahart spoke. “I’m in a meeting now, and even if I could squeeze you in, I make it a point never to talk to cops. But you made me curious. What’s the problem?”
“An illegal gravesite on Navajo Nation land.”
Delahart coughed again. “No kidding? Whoa. Call in the Mounties.”
Chee didn’t let his irritation show. “I’m finishing up something here, then I’m on my way to the Inn. I’ll see you around two.”
“You think I know something about a grave? What grave? You’re nuts, man.”
“We can talk there at the hotel, or you can meet me here at the police station. Your choice.”
“OK, fine. We’ll talk here. Whatever. Your time to waste.” He gave Chee the room number.
Chee did a quick background search on Delahart, finding business addresses for him in Hollywood and Las Vegas, lists of movies the man had been involved in producing, the story of two messy divorces completed with the help of high-profile celebrity lawyers, records of political contributions in California races, and a couple of lawsuits, settled out of court, in which stars claimed Delahart had spread lies about them.
Chee still had half an hour before the meeting, so he went to Goulding’s. The maid, Mary Toledo, the woman who had found the towels and the necklace, ought to be at work now. As he drove, a feeling of relief and something else, something like happiness, settled over Jim Chee. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d expected from the photos, but whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this—a chance to wrap up the grave case and, if Bahe was willing, head home to Bernie earlier than anticipated.
Mary Toledo seemed only slightly surprised to see a policeman. After introductions, Chee asked her to sit down, explaining that he was on loan to the Monument Valley department from the Shiprock substation. He told her she wasn’t in trouble, but he had a few questions for her.
“I know your clan brother who lives out here. They say he’s starting up a business,” Mary said.
“That’s right.”
“He’s a good man.” She looked at the floor. “I believe you came to talk to me about what I saw in that room, but I don’t like remembering it. Something bad happened there.”
“Mr. Haskie told me the story of what you found. I was wondering if you noticed anything else that might be important, anything besides the towels and the problem with the carpet and the chain with the turquoise pendant. Anything odd.”
She examined her fingernails. Chee understood her reticence. “They say you do your job here well,” he said. “Did you have an opportunity to straighten things up, throw anything away, before you called Mr. Haskie? You know, try to clean up a bit so he wouldn’t see such a mess?”
“I didn’t clean it until later, after he looked around. I didn’t feel right in there.”
“I found out that the man who rented that room used a fake name.”
Mary rested her back against the wall. “From the way the bedcovers were, two people slept there. I found long hair in the drain in the tub when I cleaned it, and lipstick on the plastic glass in the bathroom wastebasket. I think they were elderlies.”
He thought about the best way to ask the next question. “Did you find anything else in that room? Maybe something little that didn’t amount to much. After the shock of seeing those towels, it would be easy to forget about that. But when time passes, sometimes other memories come back.”
He waited.
Mary squeezed her lips into a thin line and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I found two empty soda cans in the garbage. I hadn’t seen that kind before. Special Dr Pepper. Caffeine-free. I took those because otherwise they get thrown away. I save them until there’s enough to sell at recycling.
“And those people gave me a tip, a five-dollar bill.”
If whatever happened in that room was evil, Chee thought, how odd that the criminal would leave money for the maid.
11
When she got to the station, Bernie found two messages.
The first was in Captain Largo’s precise handwriting: “Rotary of Farmington wants a speaker tomorrow from the Navajo Police about what we do. I booked it but now have a meeting all day in WR. Pls. handle this.” The note included the name of the person to contact and a phone number.
WR meant Window Rock, and Bernie knew that saying no was not an option here. Public speaking turned her stomach inside out. Even the idea of it made her grumpy. At least he’d said please.
The second, a note from Sandra, read “Call Cordova.” She handled that first.
After some pleasantries, the FBI man got to the point. “I understand you found Miller’s phone in the back of your unit.”
“A phone, anyway, that wasn’t in the car before he got there. And when I picked it up, his picture came up. So I’m betting it’s his.”
“Do you have it handy?’
“It’s locked in my desk drawer. Want me to get it?”
“Right. You know how when a phone comes to life sometimes, a message screen shows missed calls, voice mails, new texts, stuff like that?”
“I know.”
“Does anything like that flash up on Miller’s phone?”
“Before I check, tell me why you’re interested in him.”
Cordova hesitated. “Because he’s a person we’re interested in. Your turn.”
Bernie took out the phone and pushed a button to turn it on. “Will Miller be brought in for more questions about the bribe he offered me?”
“The Phoenix office is working on that.”