Dark Reservations (5 page)

Joe returned to his beer. This time he wrote
stilletto
in the condensation, not sure how to spell it. He tried to remember if he'd ever written the word before. He didn't think so. He couldn't remember writing
high heels,
either.

Joe took another long swallow of beer. He was about to draw a high heel, when a woman spoke behind him.

“It's only one
l.
”

Joe turned and saw the blonde standing next to him. She offered a smile. He turned on his charm.

“Huh?”

She pointed to his mug. “
Stiletto
has one
l.
Why did you write that on your mug?”

Joe had an answer, but not one that made sense. Oh, hi. I noticed you weren't wearing stilettos, so I knew you weren't high-maintenance. Why, no, I'm not crazy. Why do you ask? Instead, he lied. “Reliving my fifth-grade spelling bee. I got it wrong then, too.”

“You'd think you would have come to terms with that by now.”

“Some losses are harder to get over than others.”

“I'm sure.” Their eyes locked for a moment. “I came over to thank you for the drink.”

Joe searched out Mickey. The old bastard winked.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Joe said. “Linda and Sue are a lot of fun.” Lame.

“They are.” She leaned in and whispered, “But they're so loud.”

“Loud? I never noticed.”

She laughed and held out her hand. “I'm Gillian.”

“Joe. Nice to meet you.”

“Would you like to join us?”

“No, I wouldn't be great company tonight. And besides, I have a failed geometry test from ninth grade I have to revisit. Still can't figure how I botched that one.” He drew a triangle on his glass.

“You're funny.” She turned and went back to her friends. Linda and Sue both looked over and waved. “Hi, Joe,” they shouted almost in unison, but not quite. He waved back and placed his half-empty mug on the end of the counter. Mickey came over.

“She thanked me for the drink,” Joe said.

“You're a real sweetheart.”

“Yeah, I surprise myself sometimes.”

“Another?”

“One more. I don't want to ruin my nice-guy impression by staggering out of here.”

“Too late. Linda and Sue already know you. But I'll see what I can do with the new girl.”

S
EPTEMBER
24

F
RIDAY
, 7:23
P.M.

L
OS
D
ANZANTES
, C
IUDAD
DE
M
ÉXICO
, D
ISTRITO
F
EDERAL
, M
EXICO

Cedro Bartolome swirled his glass of Chianti. He examined its legs, sniffed, and then took a sip. Plums and Mother Earth.

“
Excelente,
” he said.

The waiter poured wine for the other three guests.

Tonight was special. For the last three weeks, he'd been courting a new client for the firm, a conglomerate with sizable holdings in both Mexico and the United States. A few hours earlier, the conglomerate's in-house counsel had notified him it had selected his firm, so he had called his wife, Daniela, and told her they would go out tonight to celebrate. Then he invited Ernesto and his wife. Ernesto was one of Cedro's five partners at the firm, and he rarely refused an opportunity to enjoy good food and spirits.

“Have you been following the news in America about Edgerton?” Ernesto asked in Spanish.

Almost two decades had passed since Cedro had last heard the name.

“It's not good,” Ernesto said. “The authorities found his car. They could start asking you questions again, maybe put some pressure on the firm. We should be ready.”

Cedro sipped his wine. He detected the pedestrian flavor of sour berries.

S
EPTEMBER
25

S
ATURDAY
, 9:11
A.M.

J
ONES
R
ANCH
R
OAD
, C
HI
C
HIL
T
AH
(N
AVAJO
N
ATION
), N
EW
M
EXICO

It took Joe a few minutes to find Bluehorse's trail, two tire tracks turning north off Jones Ranch Road. He got out and stuck a small orange flag into the clay by the path. Then he climbed back in his vehicle and drove into the tree line.

The way was rough. He switched to four-wheel drive. As he weaved around trees, he glanced occasionally in his rearview mirror, catching the brilliant rays of sunlight that penetrated the thin canopy and gave the clouds of dust behind him a surreal glow, as though he were passing through a magical gateway, a rift through worlds. Perhaps he was. Many have described the Navajo Nation as a mystical place, a place where superstition and the substantive world fuse into a new reality.

The trail ended in a small clearing, perhaps fifty feet at its widest. He parked next to Bluehorse's unit, then got out. They shook hands.

“The others are on their way,” Joe said. “Should be here by ten.”

“I called the chief a few minutes ago. He said he was upset I didn't know about this yesterday.”

Joe had asked Bluehorse not to tell his chief the FBI would process the vehicle today. He hadn't wanted any press showing up at the road. He'd suspected the chief was the one behind leaking the story about the bullet holes.

“Don't worry. You'll have enough to update him on after we finish here.”

“Did you tell your boss?” Bluehorse asked.

“We don't talk much.”

S
EPTEMBER
25

S
ATURDAY
, 9:30
A.M.

T
HE
C
ONSTITUTION
R
OOM
, W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Kendall Holmes touched his lips to the gold-rimmed china cup and sipped the Earl Grey tea, letting it bathe his palate. The soft bergamot tang excited his mouth yet calmed his body. He relaxed into the oversized poppy-colored leather chair in the waiting lounge of the Constitution Room, an exclusive power dining spot in D.C. Anyone who was anyone kept this number on speed dial, and anyone who mattered had standing reservations. More legislation was finalized here than on the Senate and House floors combined. And, to be honest, the Constitution Room offered the proper atmosphere to run a country, rivaling the White House in elegance and grandeur—no, exceeding the White House. On his last visit to the home of the supposed most powerful man in the free world, he had noted how shabby the place looked. The radiators begging for paint, the plaster walls bulging and out of shape. Unacceptable. He might have an opportunity to do something about that in a couple of years. The Constitution Room, however, was flawless. Even the silver and crystal chandeliers hanging from the twenty-foot ceiling gleamed with a perpetual polish. Never a speck of dust or the taint of tarnish. More important, these dangling islands of light cast the perfect illumination. As with every decision inside the Beltway, it was likely the product of a three-hundred-page report prepared by a consultant who had studied the exact number of lumens required to attract venerated statesmen—as well as the reviled.

Holmes looked over at the waiter, who stood off to the corner, visible to the eye yet distant to the ear. Eavesdropping does not attract politicians. Kendall held up his tea and nodded, indicating it was a fine cup. The young man returned the nod with a quick smile. The waiter was new. Holmes would develop him over time. Sources were important. A waiter at the Constitution Room was gold, maybe even platinum. A tidbit here, a morsel there. Holmes called it “mosaic intelligence.” Individually, the pieces were meaningless, but together, they made a picture. That was the purpose of his meeting this morning. To gather intelligence. But with caution.

He checked his watch, a Blancpain. Nine-thirty-two. The roman numerals circling the face appeared blurry. He'd stayed up late last night, leaving in his contacts, something he rarely did because his eyes were sensitive. The Edgerton mess was not only disrupting his usual calm but also his sleep. His phone vibrated, a text from his head of security—and longtime bodyguard—who waited in the lobby. His guest had arrived.

A minute later, Helena Newridge, a journalist for the
Washington Post,
waddled through the lounge, her head bobbling about, no doubt spying for gossip. The bulky jewelry around her neck and wrists gave off a rattle as she walked.

Holmes hid his disgust. “Ms. Newridge, over here.”

She sat down across from him. “I haven't been here in a while. Budget cuts—unlike the government.”

He gave her his win-over laugh, one he'd perfected for his community-outreach meetings with constituents. “Allow me to grant you an appropriation. This will be my treat.” He slipped on his D.C. smile.

“You're very smooth, Senator.”

“I enjoy people.”

She gave a smirk. “Uh-huh.”

“But before we begin, we have to agree on the terms. Yes?”

“We covered that on the phone.”

“We did, but for my own peace of mind, I would like to confirm our arrangement. You're new to certain circles, so I need to know if you can be trusted to keep a confidence.”

“It's my bread and butter.”

“I'm sure.” He smiled, showing his laser-whitened dental work, and his slightly pointy canines. “So we agree to background only. No quotes and I am not to be mentioned in the piece, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And no recording.”

She looked disappointed. “Fine, no recording.”

“Okay, shall we eat now?”

“Sure, as long as we talk, too.”

S
EPTEMBER
25

S
ATURDAY
, 9:56
A.M.

J
ONES
R
ANCH
R
OAD
, C
HI
C
HIL
T
AH
(N
AVAJO
N
ATION
), N
EW
M
EXICO

Two midnight blue Suburbans pushed through the tree line. The first parked beside Joe's vehicle. Behind the wheel was Andi McBride. She burst from her vehicle and strode up to Joe like a hungry bear greeting a hiker.

“What do you have, Joe? And I hope we aren't parked in the scene.”

“Hello to you, too, Andi. How have you been? How's the family? Go anywhere interesting on vacation this year?”

“Cut the crap. You know we've got all day to catch up. But if you want to know, I missed my jujitsu class this morning, so I haven't relieved all my stress”—she looked Joe up and down and cracked a knuckle—“yet. I got food poisoning on my cruise and was sick for three days. And if I don't get back to Albuquerque by six, my ex- is going to go apeshit, because I promised to take Pauly to the movies tonight. Other than that, I'm great.”

Bluehorse, who was standing next to Joe, took a step back.

“Happy to hear it—I mean that you're great,” Joe said, trying to suppress a smile.

“You doing all right?”

“My boss is on my ass, the job is telling me to retire, and there's a vehicle just over there”—he gestured to the east—“that's probably going to be a giant hemorrhoid. And I have another tuition payment due in two weeks. Other than that, I'm great.”

“Happy to hear it—about you being great, I mean.”

They shook hands.

“All right. Give me the nickel summary and skip the Edgerton part. I've been watching the news.” She held her pen and clipboard at the ready.

Joe let Bluehorse tell about his find and the bullet holes. As he spoke, two more agents joined them, one male and one female. The female agent was reserved and stayed off to the side of the group, filling out what Joe guessed was a crime-scene form. He recognized the man.

“It's Joe, right?” said Mark Fisher, a young candlewick of a man constantly burning nervous energy. “We did the Lujan case together in Sandia.”

Joe recalled the case. A fired railroad worker went home and lodged an ax in his son's head because the teen had left a carton of milk on the counter to spoil. The drunken father had wanted a bowl of cereal.

“It's been a while, Mark.”

“I read the father got seventeen years. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Joe said. “We appreciated your help with it.”

“Did they set a date for your retirement party?” Andi asked Joe.

“Not yet. Stretch is on it, though.”

Andi assigned Mark to evidence collection, and the other agent to photos and sketching.

Before they started, Mark went back to the Suburban. He returned a few minutes later carrying a long black plastic case, a camera bag, a camo backpack, and a tripod. Then they all followed Bluehorse to the once-forgotten hunk of metal sitting a short distance in the woods.

The milky white paint of the Lincoln glowed rather than radiated from the morning sunlight, giving its edges a fuzziness that seemed to ripple as though alive. The group circled the plundered vehicle. Criminologists suggest that stripping a vehicle is an act of vandalism, representing a breakdown of law and order, society's failure at self-policing. Joe saw it as a symptom of social cancer. The doers, like mutated cells, ate away at a neighborhood, spreading, infecting others, until the mass got so large that the community collapsed. He was sure some of these cancerous cells lived nearby. They had taken what they could from this vehicle over the years, rather than reporting it to the police so a proper investigation could have been completed back when the congressman went missing. Now Joe had to deal with it.