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  “You there, Manuelito?”

  “Yes, sir. When do you want to do this?”

  “It depends on how the Lieutenant is feeling, but I’m thinking of next Monday. That work for you?”

  “Chee should go with him. He hasn’t been to one of those meetings in a while.”

  Largo grew silent for a moment. She could practically hear him thinking.

  “Have you heard from your husband lately?” he asked.

  “Well, we talked yesterday.” Bernie’s brain raced. She seldom worried about what might happen to her, but the knowledge of what could happen to Chee followed her whenever he left on assignment. If something were wrong, Largo would have told her upfront, not wasted time with talk about meetings. But she had to ask. “Is he OK?”

  “He’s fine, but if I know Chee, he’s probably grumbling. There’s a new development in that grave he stumbled on. Bahe wanted him to stay out there until he’s settled it and given out a citation.” Largo chuckled. “Knowing Chee, that could be a while.”

  Bernie wondered why she had to hear this from her boss instead of her husband.

  “Guess that’s it.” Largo said. “Say hey to the Lieutenant for me when you go out there again. If it seems right, invite him to join us next Monday.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Your pal Miller came by and picked up his phone.”

  “How did he know we had it?”

  “He told Sandra he remembered where he was when he saw it last.”

  After Largo signed off, Bernie sat in her unit, thinking about Chee, relieved that he was OK, sad that he wasn’t coming home, annoyed that Largo had been his messenger. Why hadn’t Chee given her the bad news himself? Too busy? Bad phone service? Logical answers, but they didn’t ease her disappointment.

  She called him, first his cell, where she left a message, and then at the Monument Valley substation. To her surprise, he answered.

  “Hi there beautiful. Nice to finally hear your voice.”

  “Yours, too. Largo told me there’s a new development in the case and that you have to stay out there longer. What’s happened?”

  “I was going to call you when I got done here, but you beat me to it. I found a body.”

  “Are you talking about the grave you stumbled on?”

  “No, this is different.” And he told her what had happened, starting at the beginning.

  12

  Chee walked to the Inn looking forward to the conversation with Delahart, even though, based on first impressions, he expected the man to be a jerk. He anticipated a confrontation, lies, and denial in spite of the evidence. He’d ask the required questions, get the expected non-answers. Chee could explain the statutes the grave violated and the penalties the Navajo Nation would impose, and suggest, as Bahe had instructed, that if Delahart would make the grave disappear quickly, at least some of the legal complications might disappear, too.

  So soon, maybe even by the end of the day tomorrow, the fake grave could be gone. Another page in the saga of bizarre and questionable adventures in the amazing real-life world of law enforcement.

  He walked into the lobby, a simple, high-ceilinged room made elegant by the stunning views of the monuments and the way the design incorporated nature’s panorama as part of the decor. He’d seen the buttes and mesas every day that week, but this angle gave him further appreciation for their massive beauty.

  Then a mountain of suitcases and backpacks caught his attention. Was all this luggage on its way to the guest rooms, or on its way out with departing travelers? The group had recently arrived, he decided. A noisy flock of predominately gray-haired women accompanied by a few senior men loitered around the suitcases. Most of the elderlies had name tags on cords around their necks and wore shorts or khaki pants and hats.

  He paused for a moment, observing the confusion at the front desk. The registration clerk stood alone behind the counter, dealing with a man in a plaid shirt and a straw hat. From their posture, Chee decided neither person was enjoying the encounter.

  A broad, carpeted staircase with a wooden railing circled up from the lobby through the atrium to the upper-story guest rooms. Good, he thought, he could avoid the elevator. When he and Bernie were in Hawaii on their honeymoon, she’d teased him about climbing the stairs at that fancy hotel on the beach—twenty-seven flights—so they could see the view from the top floor. The only elevator he knew of in Shiprock was at the hospital, and the only way he would ride in that tight little box would be as a patient on a gurney. He’d take the stairs any day.

  At the top, he continued down the carpeted hallway, looking for the room number Delahart had given him. He rapped on the door, announced himself, and waited. Thinking he heard something on the other side of the door, he knocked again and called, “Mr. Delahart, it’s Officer Chee. Here for our appointment.” There was no reply.

  Chee went back to the lobby, found a house phone, and called the room number. No response. A silver-haired woman with big red earrings approached him. “Excuse me, sir. Are you a real policeman?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m with Navajo Nation law enforcement.”

  “Oh. I heard they were making a thriller out here. I thought maybe you were an actor, you know, somebody famous.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You look handsome enough to be in the movies. Could I get a picture of us together?”

  “OK, I guess.” Handsome enough to be in a movie about zombies. He’d have to tell Bernie about this.

  “Millie,” she called across the room to a lady in loose jeans and a white blouse. “Come take a picture of me with a Navajo policeman.”

  Millie’s camera was buried at the bottom of a purse that could have held Chee’s entire wardrobe. After she extracted it, she took a few minutes to get it turned on, and a few more to take some shots with the flash and some without.

  When that was done, Chee made his way to the hotel security office.

  From their phone conversation, he’d expected security director Brenda Erdman to be older. She was in her late thirties, professional-looking in a red shirt with the hotel logo and “Security” embroidered beneath it. She sat behind a desk and motioned Chee to a single straight-backed chair in her office, but he stood, hoping to keep his visit short. He noticed her America’s Favorite Desserts desk calendar as he explained the Delahart situation.

  “I need you to let me into his room.” Chee gave her the number. “We had an appointment. I talked to him half an hour ago, and he confirmed it.”

  “Where’s Bahe? He usually handles calls at the hotel.” She looked at Chee. “You need to give me a good reason to open a locked door for you.”

  “How about a safety check? The guy up there was expecting me but didn’t answer the door. Something might have happened to him.”

  “Maybe he decided he didn’t want to talk to the police. Is he a parole violator or something? Do you have an arrest warrant?”

  “No.”

  “People have a right to privacy.”

  Chee thought about it. “I’m investigating a possible crime, and this guy is important to the case. I’m here on Bahe’s orders.”

  “No. I can’t do it. It’s against hotel policy. Our guests have a right to let the phone ring and ignore a knock on the door. What if he’s, uh, romantically involved, or dying his hair in the bathroom, or sleeping with earplugs? He will raise holy hell, and I’ll be looking for a new job. I’m sure you know this without me explaining it. It has to be a matter of life and death.”

  Chee appreciated the hint. “I’m not kidding when I said something may have happened to him. He was coughing like crazy when I talked to him on the phone. He could barely speak.”

  She pursed her candy-apple-red lips.

  “A dry cough is one of the signs of heart failure. Delahart couldn’t even catch his breath.”

  “I’ll call up there. What’s the room number?”

  Chee gave it to her.

  She put the phone on speak
er. Chee counted ten rings before she disconnected.

  “That’s a suite,” she said. “Expensive. You gave me another reason not to create an angry customer.”

  “Or another reason to worry. What if he was your father up there, having a heart attack? Come on. I’m convinced this man is not safe, and you’re the person in charge of security. Rich guys, corporate types, have families who care about them, too.”

  When she looked at him now, Chee sensed a change.

  “You’re working with me to do your job, Ms. Erdman, acting on important information. You’re making sure nothing bad has happened up there.”

  “OK.” She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and picked up a first aid kit, then led the way to a service elevator.

  “Wouldn’t the stairs be quicker?”

  “No. I can give us an express ride.”

  She put a plastic key card in a slot and pushed a button. Chee heard the elevator groan and felt it begin to rise. He took a big breath, watched the numbers on the display change, told himself to relax.

  “Last time Bahe talked me into this, he told me about how he’d saved a woman who’d tried to kill herself with pills at that new Navajo casino hotel near Flagstaff. Your heart attack story and mentioning my dad was better. Tell him that.”

  Chee caught a glimpse of the green gum she was chewing. The air around her smelled like peppermint.

  “Did Bahe say what happened to the woman?”

  “He did chest compressions until the EMTs arrived. He saved her life.” She looked at Chee. “I grew up in Gallup. I have enough Diné friends so I know how hard it must have been for him to do that.”

  The elevator door opened, and Erdman headed down the broad hallway with quick, sure steps. Chee hurried out behind her, noticing the security camera.

  “What’s a suite like?” he asked. “More than one room?”

  “A living room with a balcony and a separate bedroom. There’s a guest powder room in the front and a bigger bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub off the bedroom. They’re nice. Larger than my house.”

  “Sounds bigger than mine, too.”

  As they approached the suite, Chee noticed that now the door stood slightly ajar. He took a few quick steps and knocked on the doorframe.

  “Navajo Police. Mr. Delahart, are you OK?”

  When he received no response, he pushed the door open and announced himself again.

  The first thing Chee noticed was a service cart carrying an ice bucket with an inverted wine bottle and dirty white plates stacked to one side. A split second later he felt hot air flowing toward him and realized that the sliding glass door was open to the balcony. Beyond the wrought-iron railing Merrick Butte stood against the brilliant summer sky.

  “Mr. Delahart. It’s Sergeant Jim Chee. Everything all right here?” He took a step into the room and noticed a brown shoe protruding from behind the couch, and then the leg attached to it. A few more steps, and he saw the body, facedown and motionless on the beige carpet with a crimson stain on the back of his shirt.

  This was the part of police work he dreaded most.

  He heard Erdman gasp. She moved to the body, squatted down, and put her hand on the man’s thick neck. “No pulse. He’s not breathing, but his skin is warm.”

  Chee heard a noise to the left and reached for his gun. A door began to move.

  “Police!” He yelled the word. “Open the door slowly. Push your weapon out.”

  The door moved a few inches.

  “I don’t have a weapon.” The man’s voice sounded like it was coming from the floor. “For the love of God, why do you think I’m hiding in here? Some maniac—”

  “Are you alone in there?”

  “Yes.” And then a cough.

  “Mr. Delahart, come out slowly. Put your hands out where we can see them.”

  A bearded man staggered into the room. He was wearing shorts and a gray muscle shirt with King Kong on the front. He had blood on his hands. He stared at Chee and at the security guard. Then his gaze went to the floor behind them.

  “Oh my God. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Did you shoot him?” Chee asked.

  Delahart shook his head, and then sank down to the carpet. “I can’t believe this.”

  Chee turned to Erdman. “Do you have your weapon?”

  “Right here.”

  “Take him out into the hallway.”

  She nodded. “Come with me, sir.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  Erdman reached for him, but Delahart squirmed away. “I gotta get, ah, my watch from the bedroom.”

  She grabbed his right forearm, and Chee gripped from the other side. He felt Delahart tense.

  “Hey, who do you think you are?”

  “A Navajo policeman in charge of a murder scene talking to a bloody guy I found with a dead man.”

  They steered Delahart out to the hall, where Chee released his grip. “Sit with your back against the wall.”

  Erdman reached for her walkie-talkie. “I’m putting the place on lockdown.” Then she spoke into the radio.

  Delahart stood next to the wall for a moment, and then attempted to lurch back toward the room. Erdman blocked him.

  Chee frowned at the man. “Don’t mess with her. She knows exactly what to do in situations like this.”

  He doubted that Erdman had ever been in a situation like this, but she squared her shoulders and spoke with a confidence he hadn’t heard before. “Sit. Your watch can wait. I’ll tell you what time it is—time to behave yourself.”

  Weapon in hand, Chee pushed the bathroom door open with the toe of his boot. He saw blood on the sink and more blood on the bright white floor tiles. No gun in any obvious place.

  He walked through the living room, past the body, into the bedroom. No weapons, no sign of a struggle, nothing unusual. The bed was made, and built into the floor—no way to hide beneath it. The door to a second, larger bathroom stood open. He saw a fancy watch with a gold band and, next to it, a vial of white powder on the vanity. He left them there.

  He quickly rescanned the living room and then walked onto the balcony. The outdoor furniture, two chairs and a round table, seemed undisturbed. He looked down at the sandy red earth two stories beneath him and noticed depressions, what could have been footprints. It wouldn’t take a lot of athleticism for a person to jump from here, land unharmed, and run.

  He called Bahe at the station and explained the situation.

  “I’ll be right over,” Bahe said. “I’ll contact the feds.” Homicides on reservation land belonged to the FBI. “Get hotel security to keep people from going back there where the tracks are.”

  “Sure thing. Erdman’s already put the place on lockdown.”

  “You know something, Chee?”

  “What?”

  “Life has grown more interesting in this quiet corner of Navajoland since you got here.”

  Chee came in off the balcony and took a final, slow look at the living room, forcing himself to study the area around the body. He left the murder scene and took a couple of deep breaths. Erdman and Delahart had moved from the hallway floor onto the big stuffed chairs near the elevator. The man had his head back, staring at the ceiling, a tissue pressed against his nose.

  “There are tracks in the sand out there, down from this balcony. Can you make sure nobody disturbs them?”

  “Sure,” Erdman said. “What else?”

  “Do the surveillance cameras up here work?”

  She nodded. “We have them in the lobby and the restaurant, and at all entrances and exits too.”

  Delahart interrupted. “How long do I have to stay here?”

  “Until the police are done with you,” Chee said.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Chee gave him a cold look, then turned to Erdman. “Can you go downstairs and make sure the front desk staff and the room service guy who brought the cart are available for questions?”

  “Of course. Anything else? Whatever I ca
n do.” There was energy in her voice, and her eyes were shining.

  “Those tracks in the sand off the balcony. Make sure nobody goes behind the building.”

  “Will do. You told me that already. I’ll have the tape for you in my office.”

  After she left, Chee moved the chair she’d been sitting in to give himself a clear view of both the hallway and Delahart. “Why did you shoot that man?”

  “I didn’t. You knew him. He told me he’d met you when I said you were coming to interview me.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He was that big guy, Samuel, the rent-a-cop from the movie camp.”

  “What made you kill him?”

  “That’s crazy talk. I’m lucky I’m not dead myself and you treat me like a criminal.”

  “Then set me straight.”

  Delahart coughed. “Samuel got here right when my nosebleed started. I was in the little bathroom dealing with it when I heard him talking to somebody. I thought he was on the phone. But then I heard the gunshot.”

  He’s had time to work on his story, Chee thought. “So you heard the shot and went out to see what happened?”

  “Hell, no. I thought whoever shot the guard might be looking for me. I hunkered down in there until you two showed up.”

  In that time, Chee thought, Samuel had bled to death. If he’d done his job and come straight to the room instead of posing with those tourists, Samuel might be alive.

  “So, if you didn’t shoot him, who did?”

  “I told you I couldn’t see through the closed door. Do you think I’m Superman or something?”

  “Were you expecting any visitors?”

  “No. Yeah, you.” Delahart removed the tissue from his nose.

  “Did you recognize the other voice?”

  Delahart shook his head. “Hard to hear well through the door.”

  “So let me replay this. A mysterious stranger comes to your hotel room and shoots your security guard while you’re in the bathroom. Is that your story?” Delahart’s nose was bleeding again.

  “That’s what happened.”