He made his way to a chair and took a pen from his pocket. While he waited, he made a list of what he knew already about Rick Horseman and his mysterious death. The list was short.
After about ten minutes, a slim Diné lady invited him into a small office with a window that offered a glimpse of the arid landscape of Window Rock. She motioned him to a padded folding chair on one side of a table cluttered with papers, books, and folders. She cleared off a place in front of him and one across the table for herself.
“Lieutenant, what a pleasure. My father used to talk about you all the time and I’ve always wanted to meet you. I heard about that crazy woman who tried to kill you. I’m glad you’re doing so well.”
He said the Navajo word for father with a question in his voice, and Maryellen understood. She shared news of her father’s retirement and his renewed interest in volunteering and home improvement projects.
When the right time came, Leaphorn tried to tell her what he wanted, first in Navajo and, when he realized she didn’t comprehend, in English.
Because she still couldn’t understand, he laboriously wrote down his request and supporting information in bullet points: the approximate date he’d called social services; the location of the home where he’d found the intoxicated, injured mother and the crying baby; and the names Ricky Horseman, as the child he’d transported, and Marie Nez, as the woman who had claimed the boy.
Maryellen frowned at the note. “I doubt that we still have the specific information about that family, that case.” She tapped a manicured nail on the sheet of paper. “That was a long time ago. And besides, you remember, I’m sure, that case records are confidential. I’m sorry I can’t help you. But it was an honor to meet you.”
He could drop it now, he thought. Go home. Eat the dinner Louisa would fix for him. Relax. Watch TV. But he remembered Emma addressing those envelopes in her small, precise handwriting. He remembered Emma’s smile as she showed him the cards—a frog that sprang out when the card opened, a fire truck with a ladder that expanded. He wondered if the grandmother gave the boys those cards, if the grandmother used the money to buy something for the kids. In any case, sending them gave Emma pleasure.
He looked at Maryellen’s shiny fingernails. “Shiprock bomb.”
“You think this might be connected?”
Leaphorn nodded once.
“I don’t know how these records could have anything to do with that, sir, but you’re the detective.”
He said, “Important.” And then a word he didn’t use much: “Please.”
She wrinkled her brow and looked at the desktop a moment. “How is the best way for me to follow up with you?”
He moved his fingers as if he were typing and then pushing a button.
“I don’t . . . Oh, wait. Is it easy for you to e-mail?”
Leaphorn nodded. Not easy, but easier than trying to speak English or laboriously print the letters.
She looked at his card again. “Is this your correct address?”
He nodded.
She said, “I can’t promise. I’ll see what I can do.”
Maryellen walked the few steps to her desk. She opened a drawer and removed a purse the color of buckskin. She unzipped a pocket, took out a small flat case, opened that, and reached for a card. She handed it to him.
“This is the best way to contact me.”
He noticed that the e-mail was a private address, not the official one for business, and that the name printed on it was k’aalógii. Butterfly, not Maryellen.
She said, “I saw pictures of that explosion on TV. The boy you’re asking about, did he die at the scene?”
Leaphorn wasn’t sure if Horseman’s name had been released by the FBI, but he knew how the game worked.
He shook his head and said, “Later . . . ,” this time with a finger to his lips.
He didn’t realize he’d left his cane in the waiting room until he got to the car. He went back for it with a spring in his step.
12
Bernie drove to the Justice Center. The parking lot was nearly filled with cars, trucks, and SUVs, but she found a place for her Toyota near an old pumpkin-colored VW camper that reminded her of something from the ’60s. November’s pale sunlight provided a little extra heat, and she always tried to park her car where it caught the rays in the winter. She could have walked from the motel, she realized, and a walk would have calmed her.
She noticed the protesters, a remarkably energetic group despite the lack of attention they were drawing. She spotted the big white truck with a television station logo on the side; weekends were notoriously slow news times except for traffic accidents and DUI arrests. She wondered if Palmer and the delegates would allow the cameras inside.
As she walked toward the courthouse, a man with his gray hair in a bun handed her a “Save the Grand Canyon” flyer.
“There’s no more space in the meeting room, sweetheart. You can stand in the hall, but you can’t see or hear a thing from there.” He wore a windbreaker, and his cheeks were red with cold. “I don’t like the way they shut us out.”
“Who shut you out?”
“The cops, the developers of course. The National Park Service, the tourism vultures, the greedy Indians . . .” He stopped, and Bernie realized that he had figured out she was an Indian. “Uh, did you know they have the Navajo council in their pockets? Hopis, too.”
“Really?”
He tapped the flyer. “Read that. It will open your eyes.”
The man moved closer, and Bernie could tell he wasn’t as old as she’d initially thought. “Even though it’s cold, we’re safer out here. I heard that there could be a bomb inside.”
“A bomb?”
“Boom. Like the one at that high school the other night that killed that protester. I saw it on TV.”
She was almost at the building’s doors when she heard someone walking up behind her. Moving quickly.
“Miss. Excuse me.”
She turned. A man in a dark coat and a hat that covered his ears smiled at her. He had a camera. “Jack Rightman, KOAX. How about a comment on the meeting?”
“I haven’t been there yet.”
Bun Man trotted up to Rightman. “I’ve got something to tell you.” When Rightman turned away, Bernie walked into the building. One of the Arizona officers in the lobby opened the door for her.
“If you are here for the meeting, all the seats are filled, ma’am.” He was dark and muscular. About her age or maybe a touch older.
“I’m Officer Manuelito, Navajo Police. My husband’s the Navajo sergeant who got assigned to keep an eye on the mediator.”
“Albert Anderson.” He extended his hand toward her. “Chee’s here, babysitting Palmer, in with the delegates. If you want to catch him at the break, they use the stage exit.” He smiled. “You know, I made you for a cop. I noticed how you handled yourself with that wacko out there. If he’d tried to pull anything, you could have held your own.”