Authors: John Turney
White Styrofoam peanuts fell like water droplets to reveal an old Navajo water pot, gray and clay-toned with a ropelike pattern on its rim. Iona whistled long.
“That’s ancient,” she said. “Looks like there’s dirt still on it. I’m thinking a soil test is in order.”
Rye set the pottery on the pavement next to the box. “We might have someone involved in the theft of Navajo artifacts. I have no idea how much something like this is worth.”
“Is there more?” Heilo asked.
“I think so.” Rye sunk his hand back into the peanuts and moved his hand around, discovering two more pots. Iona turned over the pottery, spilling plastic peanuts on the ground. Rye opened his mouth to comment about littering when a rectangular package fell out of the clay pot and landed at Iona’s feet. The four traded glances.
“There’s more than stolen pottery going on,” DePute said.
“You think?” Heilo replied and took several photos of the package.
Rye’s cell phone rang. “Dawlsen.”
“Nephew, it is good to hear your voice.”
“Uncle Chee?” His uncle rarely contacted him. “How’s Navajoland?”
“Filled with Navajos. What did you think?”
Rye laughed. “Okay, you got me. I’m at a crime scene now, so I have to keep this short. What’s on your mind?”
“You will be in Phoenix on Saturday?” He turned his statement into a question.
“Yeah,” Rye said, drawing out the word. “How did you know?”
“I talked to Dee.” Rye’s back stiffened when he heard her name. Chee continued, “She said you’d be watching your son at karate meet. It’s good for a father to care for his son.”
“I guess,” Rye said. He walked away from the group. “My father wasn’t the best of role models. Great community leader, lousy father.” He stopped at the truck’s cab and peered into the window. He spotted Iona staring at his back. “Why’d Dee call you?”
“Can’t go into it now. I’m using the phone at the food mart. Listen, I’ll meet you in Phoenix. We have things to talk about, you and I. Things are moving through the land that are seen only when they want to be seen.”
“Is this more of your Indian mumbo jumbo stuff?” Rye shook his head. Uncle Chee always tried to sound like some shamanistic mystic.
Especially to tourists when they bought his “authentic” Navajo jewelry made in China.
“Your words wound my heart, nephew,” Chee said, sounding genuinely hurt. “When will you leave for Phoenix?”
“I was planning on leaving early Saturday morning. But if you want, I can meet you Friday night. Maybe we can do dinner and talk some. I’ll be at the Wyndham.”
“Sounds good. Eat and talk.” Chee now sounded pleased. “I will be in their lobby at seven o’clock, white man’s time. I’m bringing a friend … if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” Rye dragged out the word. “Do I know this mystery guest?”
“See you then, nephew.” The phone went dead.
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Rye lay on top of his bed, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. He wore only his boxer shorts and a muscle t-shirt. Cool night air from the window caressed him. Weariness weighed heavily on him, as if his mind were sheathed in iron. Yet sleep failed him.
Tomorrow afternoon, he would leave to go up to Phoenix. Though he disliked the idea of leaving a murder investigation, he really wanted to see his boy. Perhaps, he and Dee could move forward one way or the other. Get back together or divorce?
His phone rang.
He swiped his cell phone off the shelf of his headboard. “Dawlsen.”
“Chief? Heilo.” Her tone chased away any sleepiness Rye might have felt. “Looks like we got ourselves another murder. And it ain’t pretty.”
They never are.
“Uhmmm … where’s the body.” Rye stifled a yawn behind a cupped hand. Weariness weighed at his shoulders like anvils. If he weren’t so numb from lack of sleep, the ache alone would keep him awake.
He fixated upon the blood-spattered apartment door and the puddle at its base. Lots of blood. Directional splatter higher up. He tore his gaze away.
These apartments had been remodeled from an old 50s two-story hotel. The redesign maintained the décor of an old west hotel. The second floor balcony, complete with a rustic wooden railing, led to stairs at each end. The parking lot was half empty. The lightbar on Heilo’s car flashed its alternating red-blue-red-blue on surrounding objects. Rye yawned again and shook his head.
“Good question, huh, Chief?” Heilo brushed back a disobedient strand of hair. She looked as tired as he felt, though she probably pushed herself to keep her mind off the death of her friend.
“Who called it in?”
“A neighbor.”
“Interview ’em yet?”
“Just the basics.” She opened her notebook. “He’d been out drinking, so he was low on the coherent scale. Says he just moved in, so he didn’t really know who lived here. And he’s got an alibi.”
“We can follow up tomorrow when he’s sobered up. Whose apartment is this?” Rye nodded at the door.
“Don’t know.” Heilo shrugged then tugged on her vest. “I contacted the manager. He should be here any minute.” She pointed to the blood pooled at the doorstep. “I put up the tape as soon as I got here, so I don’t think the scene was contaminated. Especially that.”
For a moment, Rye’s sleep deprivation prevented his mind from registering to what Heilo pointed. He stared at the dark stain, lights glistening in its moisture. The fresh blood hadn’t coagulated yet
.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and looked again. Then he saw the tracks of boots.
He knelt on his good knee and bent over. The right footprint had the same strange nick in the heel as the boot prints at the Arches’ death scene.
He rose with a grimace.
“Knee bothering you?”
“Right now, everything hurts.” Rye adjusted his belt.
A beer sounds good.
“Did you check the apartment?”
“I tapped on the window. Nobody answered. I stayed away from the door … didn’t want to disturb the crime scene. So we don’t mess up any evidence, it’s probably best we go in through the back whenever the manager gets … Ahhh, here he comes.”
A balding man approached, head down and arms pumping, his bulky beer-drinker’s paunch jouncing. In his 40s, Rye guessed.
“Chief,” Heilo said, “this is Geoff Anderson. He’s the manager of the apartments.”
“Mr. Anderson,” Rye said, holding out his hand to shake, “can you tell us who rents this apartment?”
He took Rye’s hand and gave it a bone-crushing grasp. “Yep.” Anderson fumbled with a ring of keys numbering well over a dozen.
“Aaaaa … Mr. Anderson, who …” Heilo said.
“That’d be them Visser twins—”
“Missy and Mel, if I remember.”
“That’s them. Work at the museum. Terrible thing ’bout that there break-in. Nice gals, jist not too bright. I had to kick more’n one cowboy outta their apartment. Party girls, if you catch my meaning. They in trouble?”
Rye pointed to the blood at the doorstep. “You tell me.”
Anderson’s face blanched. “Awwww, no.
Esto es muy malo
. They’s mama’s in the hospital dying of cancer and all. They don’t need this.” He held up the key ring to catch the light from streetlamps. “Aha.” Flourishing one key up like an obscene gesture, he worked it off the key ring. “It’ll open the entrance here and the back door to their apartment.”
Rye took the offered key. “Thanks. We’ll return the key as soon as we’re done here. Now if you’ll kindly … wait a second.” Rye held up an index finger. “You’re just the manager, right?” Anderson nodded. “Let me ask you, who owns the complex?”
“That would be Mayor List. Been owner for going on ten years now. Why’d you ask?”
“Just curious. Never can tell when a piece of information will solve a case.” Rye pointed with an open hand toward the edge of the parking lot, indicating that the man should leave.
Muttering about losing his sleep, the manager waddled down the balcony to the stairs.
They walked around to the back, and Rye noticed every back entrance had a shower stall-sized square of concrete. The breeze stilled as if the darkness held its breath. Sounds of the town’s nightlife mixed with the buzz of the insect nightlife. Rye unlocked the door and pushed it open, its hinges squeaking. Heilo found a light switch and flipped it on. A single uncovered light bulb dangled from the second floor ceiling, casting the stairwell in a soft gloom.
Rye pointed to the light. “I’m not up on my rental property laws, but I’d say that unprotected light bulb represents a violation of the building code. I’ll just have to bring that to the good mayor’s attention next time I have the displeasure of talking to him.”
They went up the stairs and found the apartment number to the Vissers’ back door.
“Got your vest on, Chief?” Heilo had her gun aimed and her flashlight poised.
Rye tapped his chest, so she could hear it. With that sound, adrenaline flooded into Rye’s system, and his weariness faded. He saw the same in Heilo’s eyes.
Rye slipped on a pair of latex gloves and tried the door handle.
Locked.
He inserted the key into the lock and, as quietly as he could manage, unlocked the door. The click sounded too loud in his ears. He drew his gun and turned on his flashlight, then nodded to Heilo. She returned his nod. He shoved open the door, and they swept into the apartment.
“Police!” yelled Rye. “Don’t move.”
“WPD! Anyone here?” hollered Heilo.
No answer.
“Police!” Heilo moved in one direction.
“Whiskey Police!” Rye headed the opposite. He passed through the kitchen, noticing all the knives were in the knife block. He hurried into the living room, decorated in southwestern furnishings.
“We have signs of a struggle,” Rye yelled out.
Magazines lay helter-skelter beside the overturned coffee table. A lampshade hung off kilter. Several pieces of furniture pushed aside. But no bodies. And no bad guys.
“Clear!” yelled Rye.
Moments later, from a back room, Heilo returned his yell. “Clear.”
Rye played his flashlight along the floor. He hoped to find evidence the girls were okay, yet it didn’t feel that way. The preliminary evidence indicated a struggle. Violent. Perhaps fatal.
Rye glanced up from his search to see Heilo standing in the exit from the living room to a hallway. She nodded down the hallway.
“Chief, you gotta see this.”
The hallway had three bedrooms and a bathroom leading from it. The door to the last bedroom had been left partially open. A bloody boot print decorated the center of the door, the frame splintered at the catch.
Rye nodded, raising his gun. Heilo pushed open the door with the toe of her shoe. She shined her flashlight around the room. It contained shelves filled with what appeared to be Navajo and Hopi pottery. It took a couple of seconds before the brunt of what he saw revealed itself.
“Yeah,” said Heilo, “my thoughts exactly.”
“This is … stuff … from the museum?” said Rye.
“Without checking the records, it’s hard to say for sure. See the twirled rope, look? Resembles what we found in the back of the truck.”
“What are they doing here? The Vissers probably don’t have that kind of money. It’s expensive to start an extensive Navajo pottery collection.”
“Perhaps we found a black market dealer in Indian antiquities.”
“And motive for murder. I wonder …” He shone his light on a blank spot on a shelf. Dust had gathered on the shelves, but a couple spots indicated things had been removed recently.
Rye picked up a pot next to a blank spot, shining light into the interior.
“Hello. What do we have here?”
Holding the pot with one arm, he swiped a finger of the other hand along the bottom of the inside. He eased his hand out of the pot and held up his index finger. A white powder coated the tip.
“Wanna bet that’s Cocaine?” he said. “Instead of antiquities theft, we might have part of a narcotics ring. But the Vissers? Doesn’t sound right.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
Rye leaned against his Tahoe. He felt like he’d just gone through a marathon weight training session. He closed his eyes as his mind drifted off to sipping on a cold beer in a cheap honky tonk.
“Chief,” Heilo said. “Chief, you okay?” A hand shook his shoulder.
Rye opened one eye, yawned. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Fell asleep standing up, huh? I’ve like done that before.” DePute stood beside Rye. “In Afghanistan. I was on patrol and we took 5. I’d leaned up against whatever was handy.”
“Not me,” said Heilo. “I have trouble falling asleep.” She stifled a yawn.
A black SUV pulled into the parking lot. The coroner from Yuma slid out of the vehicle and called out a greeting. The man’s shoulders slumped like someone accustomed to violent death. He fetched his medical bag from the back of the vehicle and made his way over to them.
He held out his hand. “Rye, I wish I could say it’s good to see you. But there’s always death when you call. And, recently, you’ve been calling way too often.”