Authors: John Fortunato
F
RIDAY
, 4:35
P.M.
O
FFICE
OF
S
ENATOR
K
ENDALL
H
OLMES
, 110 H
ART
S
ENATE
O
FFICE
B
UILDING
, W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
The office bespoke statesmanship. The navy-and-gold-striped settee, blue leather wing chair, polished wood tables and bookshelves, and the many photos of Holmes with the who's who of Washington, as well as a few favorable Hollywood personalities, were all appropriate for a true statesman, a leader of the free world. Not
the
leader. Not yet. But one of its leaders. He'd solidified that position when he took his post on the Appropriations Committee six years ago. He would soon be appointed to the Foreign Relations Committee, which would give him the necessary international credentials to make a viable run in the presidential primary in five years. That is, if this whole Edgerton drama didn't derail his plans before he could deposit his first campaign contribution.
So far, the press hadn't set their sights on him. There had been some comments on a few political blogs referring to him as Edgerton's policy guru, which were both a compliment and a slight, because they implied he had a lot of influence on the Indian gaming legislation. The other knocks came from a few comedians. One particularly popular political satirist had made a sly comment that Senator Holmes brought a lot of professional experience to the Appropriations Committee with his gambling and corruption background. Then he followed that with a joke about appointing a cat as head of security in a tuna factory. Something smells fishy.
Ba dum bum.
Holmes looked up from his computer when his head of security walked into the office. He'd been reading through articles sent to him by his news-clipping service, which gave him a daily accounting of all items mentioning his name. He needed to stay on top of the Edgerton debacle, so he'd been diligently reading every word of every write-up. The number of blogs had become overwhelming, and those authors were more willing to voice opinions based on nothing but conjecture. That was troubling.
“Helena Newridge called again,” Malcolm Tsosie said. He stood almost at attention, shoulders back, hands at his sides, but with the relaxed posture of a person who had no need to impress and no desire to be subservient.
Senator Holmes imagined that was how proud Indian chiefs had stood when they first met representatives of the United States government centuries back. They thought they were on equal footing, but they weren't. Malcolm had grown a little too comfortable over the years. A little too in the know. Holmes might have to deal with him someday. But not now. Not with the Edgerton mess mucking up the works. Malcolm had a talent for those things. A talent for dealing with law enforcement and for getting information.
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“What do you think?”
And a little too cocky, too.
Holmes debated if he should call her back. He believed in Sun Tzu's advice: Keep your enemies closer. Newridge could be his enemy one day. All journalists were potential enemies to a politician. He wanted to know what she knew. He pulled out her business card, which she'd given to him over breakfast. Thin card stock. Cheap. It had her cell phone number on the back, written in purple ink. He dialed, then waved for Malcolm to take a seat.
“Hello, Helena.” He used her first name. Make her feel like a friend. Her abrasive voice came through the earpiece, and he rubbed his brow as though his brain ached.
“Threats from an AIM member on the Navajo reservation?” he said, more for Malcolm's ears than to infer thoughtfulness. “Yes, I do remember something about that.”
His brain didn't ache so much now.
O
CTOBER
1
F
RIDAY
, 5:14
P.M.
B
UREAU
OF
I
NDIAN
A
FFAIRS
, O
FFICE
OF
I
NVESTIGATIONS
, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO
On his way out of the office, Joe stopped at Stretch's desk. Sadi was in her cubicle, on the phone.
Joe whispered, “Send me what you have on Othmann and Books.”
“Man, you're messing with fire. She will kick your ass.”
Joe grinned.
“I'm serious,” Stretch said. “She's taking this whole grand jury thing personal. And anyway, Sadi's right. We know these characters. Let us run it down.”
“I need it. I need to climb back on the horse.”
“What is this, a Western? You get back up on the horse and what? You ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“You're losing it, cowboy.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I want to get a little justice for the skeleton we found in the woods.”
“Wow. That's not just any horse you're riding. That there's a high horse.”
O
CTOBER
1
F
RIDAY
, 5:32
P.M.
M
ICKEY
'
S
B
AR
& G
RILL
, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO
Mickey stood behind the counter, filling two pints of draft. The bar was full, the Friday-night crowd packed in tight. Joe got lucky and found a seat at the counter, behind the beer taps, Mickey's post during happy hour. Throughout the night, the other two bartenders would give Mickey their draft orders, and he would fill them, giving each pint a perfect head.
“What's the good word, Joe?”
“I need new coworkers and a new boss.”
“Ever think it was you?”
Joe didn't answer.
“Dale's not so bad,” Mickey said. “But I guess everyone hates their boss.”
“You're a boss.”
“Yeah, but I'm the exception.”
“I don't think Serafina would agree.”
“Serafina,” Mickey yelled. “Am I a good boss?”
She carried several plates of Combos on her way to the dining room. “Pretty good, except when you're here.”
A group of patrons at the bar laughed.
“Remember that when you ask for a raise.”
She launched into fast Spanish, which did not sound complimentary.
Mickey walked to the end of the counter, his limp not so noticeable tonight. He grabbed the white towel that he kept draped over his shoulder and tossed it into a metal bucket that sat on the floor. He picked up a fresh one from the folded pile on the back shelf and whipped it into place on the same shoulder. Joe watched in a seeming trance. Maybe he could leave BIA, start fresh like that towel.
Mickey returned to his post.
“You hiring?” Joe asked.
“For what, kitchen help?”
“Behind the bar.”
“You?”
“Yeah, I'm looking for a change.”
“My patrons have enough of their own troubles. You think they wanna hear yours?”
Mickey was joking, but Joe figured there was an element of truth lurking in the comment.
“And besides, you have to go to bartending school. That and tight buns get you good tips. Customers like tight buns.”
“Explains your success.”
One of the two female bartenders called an order to Mickey. Joe noticed she did indeed have tight buns.
“Has Gillian been in tonight?”
“No, but Linda and Sue are here.” Mickey pointed. “They're entertaining a couple of attorneys.”
Joe looked. Linda and Sue were putting on a show, laughing and shouting. He could hear them now. He wondered why he hadn't noticed them before. The two men looked like corporate types, dark suits, ties pulled down.
“You want a soda? I saw you taking it easy with Gillian.”
No need to impress her anymore.
But there was Melissa.
“Soda sounds fine.”
O
CTOBER
2
S
ATURDAY
, 9:07
A.M.
R
ESIDENCE
OF
W
ILLIAM
T
OM
, F
ORT
D
EFIANCE
(N
AVAJO
N
ATION
), A
RIZONA
Joe pressed the doorbell beside William Tom's front door. An extravagance for the rez. Most houses didn't have electricity. And the owners of those that did were unlikely to waste money on such trivialities as a doorbell.
The house, a single-story adobe structure with a gravel driveway, was not a mansion in any sense of the word, even for the reservation, but it was nice, secluded at the base of a red mesa in the westernmost corner of Fort Defiance, Arizona. A wooden ramp led up to the front door. At the bottom of the ramp, a mutt sat on his haunches, watching Joe and Bluehorse. The dog had been friendly enough, and Joe had given him a treat, which he kept in his vehicle for just such an occasion. The vast majority of the dogs on the rez were not house dogs and not chained. Knocking on a strange door was often risky business. If a dog ignored a treat, Joe took that as fair warning not to step out of his vehicle.
From inside the house came a muffled male voice, angryâsomeone yelling about the door.
Officer Bluehorse stood next to Joe on the porch. He leaned over and whispered. “You know about his leg?”
Joe's bewildered look was answer enough.
“He lost it a few years back,” Bluehorse said, “Diabetes, I think.”
Joe looked at the wooden ramp. “Is he going to play sick?”
“He spoke at the county fair last year. He seemed okay then.”
A woman's voice shouted from behind the door. “Shut up, old man.”
The door swung open, revealing a fortyish Navajo woman with long hair, a too-slim body, and a face that seemed rubbed raw by rough living. Joe suspected alcohol, but she also had the premature aging of a meth user. The top three buttons of her denim shirt were undone, revealing the slopes of two sagging breasts. He guessed she had been pretty once upon a time, but now it was just a fairy tale. Life had been hard on her, or she'd been hard on life.
“
Yah-ta-hey
,” Bluehorse greeted the woman. “We're here to see Mr. Tom?”
The woman smiled, showing off her meth mouth. “Is he in trouble? Are you here to arrest him?”
“No.” Bluehorse said. “Only to talk.”
Her smile dissipated. “About what?”
“Is he home, ma'am?” Joe asked.
“What's it about?”
“He can share that with you if he wants,” Joe said. “But that'll be his decision.”
A male voice called from inside. “Char! Who is it?”
The woman, who Joe guessed was Char, looked from Joe to Bluehorse, then back to Joe.
“Is it about me?”
“Is there something about you we should know?” Joe asked.
That seemed to stop her. She turned and yelled into the house. “It's the men in blue. They're here to see you, old man.” She looked back to Joe. “If you take him, take his wheels, too.” She disappeared inside, leaving the door open.
Bluehorse walked in. Joe followed, shutting the door behind him.
The interior was dark and smelled of left-out food and sickness. They walked down a short hallway that opened into a kitchen on the left and a living room on the right. The rooms were decorated in a southwestern motif, with Navajo rugs adorning the walls and wood beams crossing the ceiling. Beyond the living room, another hallway led to several closed doorsâbedrooms most likely. The last door along the hallway slammed closed: Char's disappearing act.
The occupants of this house did not appear concerned with housekeeping. Balled-up blankets and discarded clothing ornamented the furniture. Opened and unopened mail littered every flat surface. And a haphazard stack of newspapers, more than a foot high, teetered in the corner.
“What can I do for you, Officers? And please pardon my appearance. I was not expecting company.” The voice was that of an old man, and it betrayed some annoyance. William Tom rolled forward in a wheelchair from the kitchen. He wore plaid pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt, though
white
was generous. His right pajama leg dangled from the chair's seat in acknowledgment of his missing extremity.
“Mr. Tom, my name is Randall Bluehorse. I'm out of Window Rock. This is Joe Evers. He's an agent with BIA.”
“An agent? What brings you to my home, Agent?”
William Tom's voice was cultured. He articulated every word slowly and clearly, as though speaking to someone who might have difficulty understanding him.
“I'm investigating the disappearance of Arlen Edgerton.”
“Arlen Edgerton?” The old man rolled the name around in his mouth as though savoring the syllables. “The name sounds familiar. My memory is not what it used to be.”
“Congressman Edgerton,” Joe said. “He went missing about twenty years ago. Officer Bluehorse recently found his car.”
“Oh, yes. Congressman Edgerton. I recall his disappearance.” William Tom looked at Bluehorse. “What's so urgent that NPD and BIA couldn't call first? Your visit has upset my wife.”
“That was your wife?” Joe said without thinking.
“Is there a problem?”