“Did he use my name?”
“If he did, that part didn’t make it on broadcast.”
“Thank goodness.”
“You didn’t mention that TV people were out there.”
“It was a zoo. We were lucky they didn’t get there until after Cordova took charge. I can’t talk long. I’m leaving for work. The captain and Cordova want me to help follow up with the interviews.”
“Interviews?”
“You know, all those people in the gym who might have seen something on their way in, but probably didn’t. What’s Palmer up to this morning?”
“I haven’t heard from him. Nothing else has blown up, so I guess he’s cool.”
He remembered their plan to take the loom to her mother’s house. “Do you want me to call and tell her what happened?”
“I’ll do it. I need to talk to her anyway.”
Chee said, “I miss you. I wish you were here. I’m making enough coffee for two.”
5
Bernie had just arrived at the station and slipped off her jacket when Sandra forwarded the call.
The woman on the line didn’t identify herself. “I was looking for some information about the bombing last night. Can you help me?”
“The FBI is handling that. I can give you a phone number for Agent Cordova.”
“You’re a Navajo police officer, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Officer Manuelito. Who are you?”
“I understand that you guys were the first on the scene, is that right?”
“Correct. Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Lona Zahne.”
“Lona? It’s Bernie. Bernadette Manuelito. It’s been forever. How are you?”
“Bernie? Oh my gosh! You’re a cop—I heard you say Officer Manuelito when you answered the phone. A cop?”
“Right.”
The phone went quiet for a moment.
“I just learned about the explosion out there on TV,” Lona said. “Aza Palmer, you remember him? He was supposed to be at the game. The reporter said someone was killed and, well . . .”
Bernie heard the catch in her voice.
“I talked to Palmer after the bombing. He’s OK.”
“You were there?” Lona didn’t wait for a response. “Gosh, that must have been terrifying.”
“Oh, it’s part of the job.” Terrifying was not the word Bernie would have used. Maybe exciting, challenging, exhausting, and nerve-wracking while she waited to see if there would be more bombs or a sniper.
“I could never be a cop. So Aza wasn’t hurt or anything?”
“He’s fine.”
“What happened?”
“A car exploded during the game. I don’t know much more. The FBI is investigating. Your husband wasn’t hurt.”
“Great. But Aza hasn’t been my husband for a long time. I thought everyone back there knew that.”
Bernie pulled out a notebook and jotted down “Lona Zahne” and the number on her phone screen. When something bad happened, like a car blown to smithereens, the victim’s discarded spouse ranked high on the potential-suspect list along with former lovers, debtors, fellow gang members, and associates tied to the drug scene.
“You back on the rez these days, Lona?”
“Oh no. I’m in Phoenix. My boy finished high school, got a job out of town, so I’m done with the mothering business. And you, girlfriend, still there in Shiprock where we grew up. Did you ever get married?”
The question surprised Bernie. She was thinking about Lona being “done with the mothering business” and was glad her mother didn’t feel that way.
“Me, married? Yes.”
Lona’s laugh surprised her again. “He must be a special guy. You were always so independent. Do I know him?”
“I don’t think you’ve met him. He’s a cop like me. Sergeant Jim Chee.” Bernie noticed Sandra standing in the doorway, motioning with her right hand . . . call waiting. “I’ve got to go, but I’d like to talk to you some more.”
“Sure thing.” Lona rattled off a second phone number. “Let me know when you’re in Phoenix. And I’d love to meet your husband.” Bernie ended the call and focused on Sandra.
“FBI on the line for you. And then Largo wants to see you with Wilson Sam in his office.”
Bernie picked up the call. “Hey, Cordova, Chee caught you on TV this morning. He said you handled it well.”
“I’ve had some practice. Thanks for last night. Good work. What’s the name of the new guy?”
“Wilson Sam.”
“Cocky, isn’t he?”
She didn’t respond.
“We have some preliminary information on the victim in the bombing. I talked to Largo, but I wanted to tell you directly myself.” She heard the fatigue in Cordova’s voice, waited for him to continue. “No ID on him. He had a phone, but it didn’t set off the blast. He’s Native American or maybe Hispanic, late teens or early twenties. Critical condition.”
“That’s it?”
“I know. You figured out he was young and Navajo just by looking at him.”
Bernie smiled. “What else about the bomb? Homemade? Professional?”
“We’re working on that. Before you ask, no prints yet from what’s left of the car. No clue on motive, but Palmer mentioned some threats, including nasty e-mails from an environmental group, the one that had the posters there, Save Wild America. The mediation has had lots of press and he’s a controversial character.
“You know, Manuelito, we both said ‘bomb.’ It could have been something besides a bomb, I guess. We won’t know for sure until we get the crime scene report. Largo told me he’d free you up to help with the interviews. Great. We want this solved yesterday.”
Bernie switched the phone to her other ear. “I’m going to talk to Largo as soon as we hang up. I’ll check to see if any families around here have called about a missing person. This man’s relatives could be wondering why he didn’t come home last night.”
“That’s probably not as important as—Hold on.”
Then he was back. “I just learned that the man died at the hospital this morning from injuries received in the blast. Tell Largo. We’ll cross interviewing him off our to-do list.”
The news of the death—and the nonchalance of Cordova’s comment—left her speechless.
Perched in the chair in front of Largo’s desk, Wilson Sam looked neat, smug, and a lot more rested than she felt. She settled into the folding seat next to the rookie, wondering what to expect.
Largo looked exhausted. “You hanging in there, Manuelito?”
“Yes, sir. I guess. Cordova just told me the victim died.”
Largo sighed. “The FBI and a special bomb team are still at the high school. When Cordova called earlier he said you both did great out there.”
Sam adjusted himself to sit a bit higher.
Bernie said, “We were just being cops.”
“You weren’t even on duty, Manuelito. It was some kind of luck that you went to the game. Good luck for the feds, maybe not so good for you.”