“That man strikes me as mostly talk, but he mentioned a bomb threat. Did you hear anything about that?”
“Nope. But you Navajo cops are running the show. I’m here because I could use the overtime.” Anderson shifted his weight from heel to toe and back again. “I heard about that incident in Shiprock. A huge arena crammed full of spectators? That could have been a whole lot worse. Do the feds have a suspect?”
Bernie said, “I don’t know.” If Cordova had learned something, she thought, he hadn’t shared it with her.
Anderson said, “You might mention that bomb talk to the honcho in charge, Captain Ward. Head on down the hall and take the steps.”
Bernie found Ward in conversation with a man dressed in overalls. She introduced herself and mentioned the bomb rumor.
Ward grimaced. “That story has been going around all day, and so far it’s just talk. We haven’t had any phone calls about a bomb, but the feds here are on the alert, doing what they do.”
Bernie realized that, as far as she knew, the explosion at Shiprock had come without warning. If she’d been in Captain Ward’s position she would have reacted with the same skepticism, but the chaos she’d experienced in the parking lot gave her a different perspective.
The captain said, “Chee ought to be in the meeting room doing his impression of a bodyguard. You know where that is?”
“No, sir.”
He gave her directions.
She went inside and stood against the back wall, trying to look inconspicuous while hunting for her husband. The room was about half filled, some people seated, studying their phones or chatting, others standing at their seats or in the aisles. Onstage, she saw people she assumed to be the delegates, but not Palmer or Chee.
She spotted a tall, thin man in a white cowboy hat in the aisle about halfway toward the stage. It took her a minute to come up with the name: Lee Something? No, Something Lee. She walked up to him.
“Mr. Lee, I never got a chance to thank you for staying with the injured man and helping with the traffic situation after the explosion at the high school. Ahéhee’.”
She could tell from his expression he didn’t remember her.
“I was the officer in charge for a while out there. Bernadette Manuelito.”
“Howdy. Sorry I didn’t recognize you. You look shorter when you’re not working.” He chuckled, then turned sober. “Did that guy make it?”
“No, he died at the hospital.”
Lee took off his hat. “He was banged up pretty bad. Any ideas yet on what caused that explosion?”
His short joke still grated on her. “Not that I’ve heard. The feds are in charge of the investigation.”
He nodded. “What brings you here, ma’am? I mean, Officer?”
“My husband has an assignment, so I thought I’d give him some company. How about you?”
“Mr. Gardner, the delegate representing Canyonmark.” Lee put his hat back on, making it easier to talk with both hands. “He wants me to do some contracting work if the project is approved and told me about the big powwow here. I’d never met him in the flesh. So I figured I’d mosey on out here and say hello. I wanted to find out about the hubbub over the hotel, or resort, or whatever the heck the plan is before I sign on to work with him. Did you see those demonstrators out there?”
“I did. There are quite a few groups here. I didn’t expect so many different viewpoints.”
Lee adjusted his shirt cuffs. “The worst are those self-righteous guys like Blankenship, the man who represents the commercial rafting organizations. Those folks are only concerned about themselves. That man is a liar, and a cheating son of a gun. Before he opened his raft business, he was an organizer for one of the wacko groups that want the world to go back to 1890 or something. My sister gave that bunch money she couldn’t afford to and, of course, she didn’t get it back even when they had to close because of fraud. He’s a—”
She heard the chime of a cell phone and saw Lee pat his shirt pocket.
Bernie said, “Do you know when the session will reconvene?”
“Well, the mediator said they’d start up again in ten minutes and now it’s been twenty. Excuse me, Officer. I’ve got to take this. If you’d like a seat, you can have mine.” He indicated a place in the second to last row on the aisle.
The delegates had filed back on stage, with a portly, balding man in a dark suit arriving last. Palmer headed to the podium. He seemed older than he had at the game, perhaps because, instead of a basketball jersey, he wore dress-up clothes. He hung his Pendleton jacket with turquoise in the design on the back of a chair and she noticed his fancy western shirt with pearl buttons.
A few moments later, Chee came striding across the back of the stage. He looked tired, she thought, tired and worried. Palmer readjusted his microphone and turned it on. “Welcome back, everyone, and please be seated. We’ll get started with public comments.” He gestured to the two stands with the microphones in the back of the room, arranged so the speakers would be facing the delegates, and explained the rules for commenting. “I invite anyone who would like to address the panel or myself to please approach the mics.”
Bernie watched Chee watching the audience. He was tense. She kept her eyes on him, admiring his good looks and wondering what troubled him.
Then the creak of the door behind her caught her attention. She turned to see the TV man enter the room carrying a large black duffel bag. He began to unload and set up equipment, a tripod, power cords, and more she didn’t recognize.
Onstage, Palmer was summarizing. “I ask that everyone act with respect, including respect for those with whom you disagree. Stick to the topic. Mention your most important points first, in case you run out of time.
“Speaking of time . . .” Palmer held up a card with the number thirty on it. “I will raise this when you have thirty seconds to complete your remarks.” He held up a second that read “Thank you.” “When you see this, your time is up and you need to sit down.” Palmer glanced at the people who had assembled at the back of the room. “The lady in the blue T-shirt, please introduce yourself, tell us if you are speaking on behalf of a group, and make your brief remarks. Then I will call on the man with the red tie at the second microphone.”
The woman mumbled her name and gave a rambling talk about the importance of the Grand Canyon as a place where city people could enjoy the night sky without light pollution. The cameraman stopped the video.
Next came a man in a button-down shirt with a fish-logo tie who identified himself as a member of Swim Free, a group dedicated to preserving habitat for an endangered fish, which he named in Latin. Because the fish could not speak for itself, he said, he and his organization protected its interests as they related to planning for and construction of the resort. He began a discourse on the interconnectedness of nature that sounded to Bernie remarkably like something her grandmother might have said.