Leaphorn nodded, swiveled his chair away from her, and picked up the laptop sitting on his desk. He turned back ready to type, focusing on the screen. She felt more comfortable speaking to the top of his head.
She started with the scene inside the gym, the sound of the blast, the glow of the burning car, the smell of the fumes, the discovery of the victim, the boys who ran, the medic who helped, the arrival of the fire truck, other cops, and, ultimately, Cordova. She painted the picture as vividly as she could. Leaphorn’s fingers moved sporadically on the keyboard as she spoke.
She explained about the follow-up interviews, the lurking person with the dark hoodie, and the man in the brown jacket—perhaps the man the rookie found on the asphalt—sitting in the car. “The feds identified the body as a guy with an arrest record for car theft, but nothing like bombing or murder.” She told Leaphorn the dead man’s name. She summarized the interview with the grandmother, Cordova’s unsuccessful search for bomb materials at the grandmother’s house, and Horseman’s lack of ties to the organizations on the FBI’s list. “His grandmother told me he had turned his life around, but she lied about something.”
Leaphorn stopped typing when she fell silent. She noticed that he had closed his eyes, and the way the sun illuminated his smooth face. She said, “What do think?”
He opened his eyes. “First, what are your questions?”
“Let’s see. If Aza Palmer was the intended target, why did the bomb go off before he got to the car? What about motive? I guess that should be the first question. Why would someone want to kill him? Cordova believes it’s linked to the mediation, but Palmer is a lawyer, and he told me he had enemies.” Bernie took a sip from her water bottle.
“More questions?” Leaphorn sounded like a patient father coaching a slow child.
“If the victim was the bomber, why did he die? If the dead man wasn’t the bomber, why was he outside instead of watching the game? If the attack is tied to the mediation, why not blow up the car there?” Bernie leaned back in the chair, then sat forward again. “Oh, I forgot to mention that the mediator’s ex-wife called the station and I talked to her. She wanted to know if Palmer was injured.”
Leaphorn raised his eyebrows.
“She seemed genuinely relieved that he wasn’t hurt. She said they were friends.”
He nodded and glanced at his laptop. “Dark sweatshirt?”
“The witness thought it was blue.” Bernie related as many details of Julie Pahe’s story as she remembered. “I don’t know how to track that guy and, well, the feds have moved on.”
Leaphorn rested his chin in his hands, the pose she’d noticed he used when he was thinking. He spoke in Navajo. “Interesting. Interesting and complicated. The dead man puzzles me. Did Palmer know him?”
“I’m not sure.”
Leaphorn said, “I’ll see what I can find out about the man who was killed.”
Bernie heard footsteps in the hall and then Louisa arrived with tea and some store-bought cookies. “I remembered that Joe and I have to go to his therapy appointment in about half an hour. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before now.”
“I need to leave soon anyway,” Bernie said. “I’m off work today, so I’m heading off to Tuba City.”
“Have some tea first. It will give you energy for the road.” Louisa handed them each a steaming cup and passed the plate of cookies. Bernie took a bite of a pink wafer, as crisp and flavorless as Styrofoam except for the ultra-sugary white filling. She hoped it might ease the shock of the tea. It didn’t.
Louisa said, “I heard about the bombing. They said someone was killed. Was it a police officer?”
“No. It was a young man.”
“Anybody you knew?”
“No. Thank goodness. I met his grandmother, Mrs. Nez, when I drove out to give her the news.”
Leaphorn put his cup on the table, the tea untouched. “Nez? Where does she live?”
Bernie explained.
“Do you know her?” Louisa asked.
Leaphorn shrugged.
Bernie was acquainted with at least a dozen Nezes; her mentor surely had met even more. Nez was as common a surname in the Navajo world as Johnson or Nguyen or Garcia outside the reservation.
Louisa started to chat, as white people do. Bernie’s mention of Tuba City and the possibility of a visit to the Grand Canyon stirred Louisa’s own girlhood memories of a mule ride from the rim to the Colorado River.
Bernie managed to make the cookie last through half a cup of tea and most of the story. When Louisa offered her more, she found the polite opening to say good-bye. She had to talk to Palmer about the dead man, connect the dots, and she wanted to do it face-to-face. More than that, she missed her husband.
The Toyota cruised along Arizona 264 toward Tuba City. She turned on the radio, didn’t like anything she heard, and turned it off. She was ready for a few hours of quiet. The Lieutenant had promised to e-mail her any insights he had on the case; it made her happy to know she had his help.
She stopped at Keams Canyon to get a Coke, to stretch her legs, and to chat with the manager of the complex, a trading post that now included gas pumps, a café, a grocery store, and a gallery featuring some fine Hopi art. She loved the scenery here at the border of Hopi and Navajo territory, the big rocks, the scattering of pi?on, juniper, and Siberian elms leafless in the dark days of early winter. She took a deep breath of the fresh cold air and glanced out toward the Hopi mesas. Life was good.
Inside on the bulletin board she saw a green flyer, a call for protesters to rally at the Grand Canyon development meeting in Tuba City. It looked like the ones she had seen at the Shiprock gym. At the bottom was the logo for Save Wild America, a picture of the Grand Canyon with smokestacks at the bottom. Odd, she thought, since the proposed development was a luxury resort.
She took her Coke with her and cruised up the highway, past the Hopi High School, Polacca, and the road that climbs to the First Mesa villages of Hano, Sichomovi, and historic Walpi. She passed the handmade signs for in-home artist studios, the junction with Highway 87, which headed south to the interstate, and drove on to Second Mesa. She cruised through Shongopovi and stopped at the Hopi Cultural Center restaurant for a bowl of nok qui vi, the tribe’s equivalent of mutton stew. It had hominy instead of potatoes and lacked the carrots and onions Mama always put in hers. She figured the Hopis must like it, but next time, she’d go back to her regular choice, a hamburger.
She remembered a funny story Chee had told her about the time he started a fire here in an effort to flush out a bad guy, nearly burning down the cultural center without the sanction of the Hopi authorities or Captain Largo. Not her husband’s finest hour, but he solved the crime.
The dining room stood relatively empty, only two other tables occupied. The Hopi women at the table closest to hers discussed the meeting in Tuba City energetically enough that she could listen without feeling like a spy.