“No, sir. Richard could be Rick, the man Gloria Chino knew.” She filled him in.
“Horseman was in the system because he got arrested for car theft, but the charges were dropped. Cordova wants you to go with him tomorrow morning to interview Horesman’s grandmother. You can put the AA stuff on hold.”
“Yes, sir. I felt funny about that anyway.”
“How did you do with your contact list?”
“I gave some to the rookie. The rest is done. Nothing much new. Someone might have seen the dead man sitting in the car that blew. Someone saw another suspicious character out there. It’s in my report.”
Largo said, “After you do the interview with Cordova, take the next couple days off. The FBI is on this like ants on jelly and the rookie will come in.” She could practically hear him thinking over the phone. “How did he do out there?”
“He made some mistakes, but he didn’t panic. There was a lot going on. He tried to show some initiative.”
“Anything else you’d like to say?”
“No, sir.” Wilson Sam’s attitude toward her was something that she’d deal with privately.
“One more thing. Leaphorn wants you to give him a call.”
“Did he say about what?” She remembered that she needed to stop by and see the Lieutenant. Her days off would be perfect for that.
She heard Largo’s rumbling chuckle. “No, but if I had to guess, I’d say he needs to give you some advice or wants a favor. Or maybe some of each.”
6
Jim Chee walked from the motel to the Tuba City police station. He could have driven, but it was only a few miles and the early morning was crisp, cool, and bright with sun. The newscaster noted that a major winter storm could be on the way, but that was always the case in November. No use worrying. Enjoy today’s beauty.
The receptionist at the police station looked up when he entered.
“The meeting is down the hall.”
Chee knew the way. A pair of officers—a tall, thin sergeant and a shorter, younger, more muscled fellow with the posture of a Marine—stood in the hall.
“Hey, Chee, I heard you’d be up here,” the tall man said.
Chee nodded. “Yá’át’ééh.” He remembered Sergeant Art Redbone as a quick wit and a good cop. Redbone introduced the other man, Officer Billy Silversmith.
“I just found out from the sergeant that you worked with Lieutenant Leaphorn.” Silversmith looked serious. “He’s been consulting on a case up here. He was telling us about when he worked as a PI, helping a woman from Santa Fe find her granddaughter, and how your case dovetailed.”
“What else did Leaphorn say?”
Silversmith hesitated. Redbone grinned and picked up the conversation. “Nothin’ much, except that some dude named Chee nearly got him killed.”
Chee remembered the case. “That was quite a deal. Both of us nearly got killed by a crazed bilagaana researcher doing a study on bubonic plague. The guy had a special suit to keep the germs out, and he scared an old lady out there who thought he was a skinwalker.”
“I remember that,” Redbone said.
“If you have a chance, ask the Lieutenant to tell you about the case of the missing Navajo boy he worked at Ramah and Zuni Pueblo. That was before my time, but it was a classic piece of good investigating. Is he driving out here for the meetings?”
“No,” Silversmith said. “We do it all by computer, instant messages, texts, stuff like that.”
Redbone said, “Were you involved in the commotion at the high school?”
“No. My wife told me it was a real mess.”
“If that bomb had gone off with the lot full of people, it would have been terrible. Lucky that someone would go to all that trouble and screw up the timing.”
“Or set it off himself,” Silversmith said. “Bam. Maybe that guy who died was our mad bomber.”
Redbone said, “So your wife’s a cop, too. How do you like that?”
“It’s great. She’s great. She’s really good at what she does.”
Silversmith said, “I think it would be too much shop talk and not enough pillow talk. I’d have some trouble with that.”
Redbone chuckled. “You’re having trouble finding a wife in the first place. You need to figure out how to meet women someplace other than at crime scenes.”
Silversmith made a sound between a laugh and a snort.
Chee said, “Anything special at the meeting today?”
“I bet we’re going to get guidelines for handling hotheads,” Redbone said. “The captain expects a bunch of greenies to roll in from California. Some group famous for getting arrested and claiming police brutality. He’s giving us body cameras.”
Silversmith said, “The mediation hasn’t even started and we’re already working.”
Chee said, “If that group wants publicity, they’re coming to the wrong town. Tuba City doesn’t have a television station, a radio station, not even a newspaper unless the Navajo Times comes around. If we’re lucky, they’ll get bored and move on.”
“The Internet is everywhere,” Silversmith said. “Take a video with your phone, and bam, it’s viral even from downtown Tuba City. Of course, this place is kind of famous for combining things that normally don’t go together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, to start with, our Navajo Justice Center, where the meeting is, includes both a jail and space for those Peacemaking meetings so the bad boys get a scolding from their grandmother.”
Silversmith had greatly oversimplified Peacemaking, a concept society could use more of. Chee knew the program grew from the belief that families and friends were responsible for one another. If a person abused his wife, stole from a neighbor, or otherwise failed to follow the Navajo Way, his inner circle called him on it, challenged him to do better, and gave him a way to make amends and get back into harmony that did not involve jail time.
“And think about this.” Silversmith paused for effect. “Tuba City, one of the biggest towns on the Navajo Nation, is named for a Hopi who became a Mormon.”
Chee laughed. “You know we call it Tó Naneesdizí. Tuba City is only the English name. But I see your point. The mediator, the different delegates, and the protesters should be right at home here.”