She envisioned the Farmington event. She’d be an outsider in a group where everybody knew everybody, a woman among mostly men, a Navajo in a group that was white with a few Hispanics, a young woman in a crowd contemplating retirement. But no matter what the audience, public speaking didn’t come easy to her. She was slightly more comfortable with it than Chee, or maybe even Captain Largo, but that only meant that she’d faced a roomful of strangers eighty-five percent terrified.
The Rotarians had requested an overview of the work the Navajo police did, so that was what she focused on: the history of the force, the size of their jurisdiction, how they worked with other agencies like the New Mexico State Police and the San Juan County sheriff’s office. Then she’d touch on the issues that continued to face the department and the people they served: lack of community activities as alternatives to crime, the growing influence of gangs and drug trafficking, too few officers, too few resources, too much territory to cover.
Bernie had made a decent start when Sandra buzzed her. She had a call from a truck driver.
“Yes, ma’am, I saw that blaze. It was somethin’. I couldn’t figure what it was at first. I thought it might be a house. I wanted to turn down that dirt road and have a look, but I was already off schedule.”
“Do you drive that route all the time?”
“A couple times a week I might have packages out that way.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
She heard silence on the phone, and then he said, “You mean, like somethin’ I didn’t usually see out there?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, now that you remind me, I saw a hitchhiker trying to thumb a ride out to 491. I notice them every once in a while. Not too often, because there’s barely any traffic out that way. I can’t pick nobody up. Company’s strict about that. One time my pal Mario, well, he stopped for this kid—” The driver’s tale grew elaborate, wandering away from the investigation Bernie was pursuing.
When he paused, she steered him back to the hitchhiker. “You mentioned that in addition to seeing the fire, you saw a person trying to catch a ride. Why did you think that was odd?”
“Well, he was wearing hiking shorts and had a dog with him. He was tan, but not an Indian, no offense. I wondered if he’d been climbin’ Ship Rock or something. I know that’s against the rules, but people try to do it anyway.”
“Do you remember how tall he was, anything else about him?”
“He looked like an average guy in a ball cap. Maybe thirty or early forties. He had on a long-sleeved shirt with those shorts.” The sketchy description of the hitchhiker matched her memory of Miller right down to the baseball cap.
After Bernie hung up, she talked to Largo about her interview with the driver.
“It’s summer, Manuelito. Shorts really aren’t suspicious unless you see me wearing them.”
Navajos of Largo’s generation dressed conservatively, with a tip of their Stetsons toward the cowboy tradition. The generation above them, elders like her mother and Mrs. Darkwater, had been raised to be even more modest. Bernie remembered Mama always in a skirt until Darleen had persuaded her to wear sweatpants for a big, messy job around the house. Their mother had become an instant convert, but still always wore a long skirt, a velvet blouse, and her best jewelry to visit friends and relatives.
Largo leaned back in his chair. “What I wonder is who burned that car and why, and whether we’ll be seeing more of this out here. Follow up on that gang stuff Wheeler copied for you. I would like to get this off the books. Any luck reaching Miller?”
“No, sir. I called the number the deputy gave me. No answer, no way to leave a message. I called his old cell phone. Same results.”
“OK. Back off. Cordova handles that, understand?”
“Yes, sir.” She stood to leave. “How did that domestic violence call work out?”
“The man was gone when Bigman and the new guy got there. The wife had a bloody lip but didn’t want to press charges. She and the kids were shook up. The new guy did OK.” Largo moved forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “You know, Manuelito, sometimes women feel safer with another woman. You could do some good on those cases. You ought to think about that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know you don’t want to be pigeonholed. But because of what they’ve been through, a lot of these ladies don’t trust men much, even a nice guy like Officer Bigman.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll call Cordova and tell him about the hitchhiker.”
“You’re changing the subject. We could use a specialist in domestic violence. I could get some training for you.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“You’re stubborn, too. Good luck with the Rotary tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She left a message for Cordova that she had news of Miller, but nothing more. Maybe she could use the hitchhiker sighting to finally coax some information from his sealed lips. As she prepared to get back to work on the talk, she saw that the Lieutenant had sent her an e-mail:
Cactus = Sclerocactus mesae-verde, endangered, grows in Shiprock area. See below.
Listed as threatened by the US and on the NM and CO rare plants list.
He had included information copied from his research site:
Found on tops of hills or benches and slopes of hills, from gravelly to loamy and pulverulent clay soil, the plant is very small, with a maximum size of only 2 to 2.5 inches in height, 3 to 3.5 inches in diameter, and with up to 14 spiral-like ribs. The flowers are white to cream-yellow, 3 cm long, 2 cm in diameter and do not open completely. The fruits are green, spherical, with a diameter of 1.25 cm. The fruits brown with age, and split horizontally. The seeds are black. Wild-collected specimens usually die in cultivation.
The part about the little plants not surviving in captivity caught her attention. Interesting and sad. But it said “usually,” not always. A glimmer of hope remained for her little transplants. Certainly they would have died if they had been dumped in the garbage along with the dirt in the boxes. Had Miller known what the cacti were when he dug them up, or was it accidental that they were in the boxes? If he knew they were endangered, protected by the Navajo Nation, the state of New Mexico, possibly federal regulations, that would explain his reluctance to open the trunk, and his attempt at bribery. Endangered, she realized, was the word Mrs. Darkwater had needed for her crossword puzzle.