Rock with Wings Page 17

  “That’s what I thought. My daughter made the call. I have coffee from breakfast, it could still be warm. Would you like some?”

  It would be rude to refuse, even though the heat of the day made coffee less appealing.

  “Do you want sugar in it? I like mine sweet.”

  “No, sir. Just the coffee would be fine. No sugar for me.”

  He hobbled in, leaving her to enjoy the view of Ship Rock. Even in the harsh afternoon light, Tsé Bit’ a’ í held majesty. Bernie knew the story of the winged monsters who once lived on Ship Rock and how the Hero Twins killed them but spared their children, transforming them into eagle and owl.

  When Mr. Tso came back with the coffee, Bernie noticed that he used a rope to hold up his pants. He handed her a blue enamel cup that reminded her of the ones she’d seen at Paul’s house. She tried a sip. It tasted worse than she’d imagined; stale, sharply acidic, and about the same temperature as the day. To make it worse, he had added so much sugar that it could have been coffee syrup.

  She listened to Mr. Tso’s stories about serving in the marines in Korea. He made her laugh, but she knew he must have darker memories of that time, things left unspoken. He finished his coffee and the story at the same time. “My grandson was going to sign up for the marines, too, after high school, but then he never did. He says he’s looking for a job, but he’s not looking in the right places.”

  “Speaking of jobs, I need to ask you questions about the car that burned. It could happen that whoever did this will do it again. People will suffer.”

  Mr. Tso frowned. “It’s dangerous to talk about these things. I am an old man, but you, you need to stay safe to help your mother.”

  “My job is to help keep other people stay safe, too. People like you, my mother, and your daughter and your grandson.” She paused to give him time to consider what she’d said. “Did you see the fire?”

  He leaned back, resting his thin shoulders against the wall. With some difficulty, he twisted the lid to open the bottle of water that Bernie brought. “Yesterday afternoon, I had a pain in my hip, so I was resting in bed when I smelled something.” He took a sip. Screwed the cap back on. “I opened my eyes and still smelled something strange. Then I came out here to the porch and that’s when I saw the flames over that way.”

  He moved his chin toward the site of the burned car. “After a long time, the flames got so low I didn’t see them, just the glow and the smoke. My daughter saw that car when she came for me so we could go to Gallup to the clinic. When we got to town, we went out to eat at a big restaurant, you know, one of those places where you get your own food? They have Jell-O with those little marshmallows. Red Jell-O is the best.”

  Mr. Tso stopped talking.

  Bernie turned the conversation back to the car. “Did you see any people out there? Anyone driving by or driving away?”

  “Not people. Only the thing we don’t talk about.”

  The area had a reputation for skinwalkers, shape-shifters who could outrun a car, who changed from human to animal and back again. Evil creatures. She shared the Lieutenant’s view on this, more skeptical than Chee when it came to supernatural malevolence. But she did not doubt that evil existed and that some of it defied ordinary explanation. Traditionals like Mr. Tso believed that to talk about shape-shifters invited their attention, gave them power to trouble you.

  Bernie sat with Mr. Tso for a while, watching the light change on the Rock with Wings. The gray volcanic core looked massive, sharp-edged, beautiful.

  “Tell the police that car should stay there,” Mr. Tso said. “It can remind people to keep away from that place.”

  In the background, Bernie heard the sheep bleating in their pen. She remembered spending summers traveling with her mother’s flock to the greener pastures in the mountains, enjoying the outdoors, the freedom, and even the work.

  “Your mother might like that restaurant my daughter knows about. The Big Corral, or some name like that. You should take her there next time you go to Gallup.” He finished the bottle of water and put it down beside him. “I would like you to come back to see me. But we will not talk about that fire.”

  She walked to her unit, feeling the push of the hot wind against her pants and shirt, narrowing her eyes to slits to keep the dust out. She felt worn out from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, and Mr. Tso’s old coffee sat in her stomach like an acid bath. She had hoped for a clue from the old gentleman, not skinwalker rumors.

  She drove back to the burned vehicle to look again for tracks, for an empty gas can, for some sign of how the fire started other than a theory of supernatural evil. She was more thorough this time, examining debris the wind had anchored to the shrubs and rocks and hiking up a hill above the vehicle, hoping the overview might give her a better perspective on the crime. Pausing when she reached the ridgeline and turning out of the wind, she glanced down toward the blackened car. It looked like a carapace, the discarded outgrown body of a giant insect, even darker than the lava that formed Ship Rock and its dikes.

  Bernie knew that geologists described Ship Rock as the core of an ancient volcano. The dikes, or stone walls, that radiated from it had once been lines of liquid glowing lava that spewed up through the earth rather than pouring from the volcano’s mouth. One Diné story, also violent, told of Ship Rock as the home of vicious birds that swooped up the People and fed them to their fledglings. Geologists disagreed about the age and force of the volcanic field that created Ship Rock and the dikes, just as her people’s stories of the rock’s origin and purpose varied depending on the storyteller. As Bernie saw it, the diversity of stories reinforced the idea that there are many valid ways to see the world and live in harmony, in hozho, with nature and your fellow humans.

  She looked around the ridgetop again, seeing some indentations, possibly what the scouring wind had left of footprints in the soil. She followed them for a few minutes until she came to a place where the earth had obviously been disturbed. A piece of wood, thin and painted, had been shoved into the soil. At first she thought it might be a prayer stick of some sort, but it wasn’t. It reminded her of the little stakes used at construction sites. Something had been removed from this spot, and if she had to guess, she’d say it was dirt. The same kind of dirt she’d seen in the trunk of the car that so closely resembled the burned vehicle at the bottom of the ridge. She took some photos of the stake with her phone. She took out the plastic Ziploc bag she always had with her in case she found some interesting seeds, or something else worth collecting, and used her hands to scoop in some dirt. Hiking down, she walked around the burned car again, taking more photos.

  On the drive back to the Shiprock station Bernie thought about Miller. Why had he come to the reservation instead of going home to Flagstaff? And where was he now, the man who loved the desert? Why had his car burned? Who would destroy something so useful? She’d have plenty of questions for the Lieutenant to ponder.

  As soon as she had service again, she radioed in the charred vehicle’s VIN. The check could take a while, and the business day was nearly done. But by the time she arrived at the office, Sandra had a message: “Arizona Motor Vehicles confirmed Michael Miller as the burned car’s registered owner.”

  Bernie checked her e-mail and found a message from the soil sample lab, with a report attached. She opened it eagerly. “No organic or chemical contamination discovered. Soil resembles that found near Ship Rock, more gravelly than loamy, with traces of pulverulent clay.”

  Disappointed, she read on to discover highly detailed information about soil structure. Unfortunately, none of the details offered obvious clues to Miller’s motivation. At least now she knew that the dirt was just dirt, and where it came from. It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for, but it led to a new series of questions.

  “Do you have a phone number for the daughter of Mr. Tso, the woman who reported the burned car?” she asked Sandra.

  “Here it is. Roberta Tso.” Sandra gave her a slip of paper. Befor
e she called, she checked it against the number for the Roberta she’d noticed on Miller’s phone. Bingo. But why?

  Roberta Tso remembered the burned car very well.

  “By the time I got there to pick up Dad—he was spending the night with me because his appointment at the clinic was early—the fire was nearly out. I’d never seen a car burned like that. It was amazing. Scary. I had to wait until we got back toward Gallup to call it in.” The voice on the phone stopped. Bernie heard Roberta sigh. “I worried about my father living out there by himself even before this happened. I’d like it if he’d move in with me in Gallup, but he’s a strong-willed man. It will take even more than a fire-starting maniac to make him change his mind.”

  “When I spoke with him, he didn’t have much to say about the fire.”

  Bernie heard Roberta chuckle. “He’s not a big talker unless it’s war stories. He knows all those details, but the rest of his memory seems to be fading. Sometimes he can’t tell the difference between what happened to him and what he dreamed or imagined. My father mentioned that he saw something strange a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to talk about it, but I could tell it made him nervous. Now he thinks whatever he saw was tied to the fire. I don’t like the idea of Dad out there alone, with something like that going on.”

  Bernie noticed the anxiety in the woman’s voice. “Do you have an idea of what frightened him?”

  “No. He just changes the subject when I ask, so I stopped asking. He might have just imagined something.”

  “Does your father have any other relatives or neighbors who check on him? Anyone you know of who might have seen something suspicious?”

  “My boy, his grandson, goes by now and then. Aaron. Aaron Torino.”

  “Would you give me his number? I’d like to touch base with him.”

  There was silence for a moment. “I’ll give you his phone number if you want, but I don’t know how helpful he’ll be.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Oh, he’s our problem child.”

  Bernie changed the subject. “How do you know Michael Miller?”

  “He’s been talking to me and Aaron about some solar panels he would like to install out by Dad’s house. I think he’s a nice guy, but Dad doesn’t like him, and he says the panels are ugly.”

  “Do you know how Miller’s car ended up out there?”

  “Oh, no. That was his car, the one that burned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he was looking for an alternative site, since Dad was so adamant about not wanting the solar stuff. Was he hurt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bernie told Roberta she might have some follow-up questions, and hung up.

  She called Aaron Torino. Her efforts to build rapport by telling him how much she had enjoyed talking to his grandfather fell flat. Torino asserted that he hadn’t seen anything and didn’t know anything. From the noise in the background, she suspected there were others in the room with him. The nervousness in his voice was palpable.

  “My granddad says the skinwalkers hang out there. He has some crazy scary stories about that stuff. Ask the old dude.”

  She spoke before she could stop herself. “Shicheii. That’s what we call our mother’s father, our grandfather. We speak of them with respect.”

  After he hung up, she decided she needed to talk to Aaron Torino face-to-face. Preferably at Mr. Tso’s house.

  14

  The hotel elevator doors opened and Bahe stepped out, looking more serious than Chee had ever seen him. A tall, thin man, obviously FBI from the tailored cut of his clothes and his demeanor, stood next to Bahe. He introduced himself as Agent Burke, not volunteering his first name.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Chee. I thought you were based in Shiprock. I heard about you from Agent Cordova.”

  “I’m on loan to Bahe while some of his folks are in training. I had an appointment with Delahart here, and—”

  Burke cut him off. “Bahe filled me in. Are you sure no one else has been in the suite? No cleaning people or food service? I see you here and the crime scene down the hall.”

  “No one has been in there since I left.” Chee kept his voice level.

  “I saw that security gal out there instructing some kid in a T-shirt to keep everyone away from the back of the building. I hope it’s not too late.”

  “She did her job well. She gave me a lot of help.”

  The agent stared at the blood on Delahart’s face and hands and turned to Chee again. “What’d you do to him?”

  Delahart spoke first. “Let’s get this over with. He didn’t do anything, and I didn’t shoot anybody. I hid in the john, and I couldn’t see what happened. I’ve got a life. I can’t sit here growing old.”

  Burke ignored him. “I’ll take a look, see what you missed, get some photos. The body’s still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “The man had a name. Samuel. He worked for me.” Delahart’s voice had an edge. “When you go down there, bring me my phone. I need to make some calls, get some work done.”

  “Of course you do, and I’m here to wait on you.” Burke’s smile was totally devoid of good nature. They watched him stride down the hall. His walk reminded Chee of students strutting onstage at graduation.

  “Are all FBI guys like that?” Delahart asked.

  “No.” Chee turned to Bahe. “Shall I take Delahart to the station?”

  “I’ll do that.” Bahe walked over to Delahart and stared down at him a moment. “Agent Burke is in charge of the murder investigation, but you have some business to settle with the Navajo Nation for digging a grave outside your permit area. Chee here looked at the photos your people took. No grave before you arrived.”

  Delahart shrugged. “We talked about that. Take it up with Robinson. Give him the citation and tell him I said to pay it.”

  “What about the body at the gravesite?”

  “There is no body. We dug a hole, lined up some rocks. It was a joke, a prop.”

  Bahe said, “Well, there’s something there now. Detective Tsinnie sent what we found for analysis, but it sure looks like bone fragments.”

  Delahart’s jaw dropped. “Samuel drove the backhoe we used to dig the hole. I was gonna say you could talk to him about it, but I guess you can’t. He might have found some animal bones or something to make the grave realistic.”

  Chee was remembering the chip he’d found near the grave. “Was Samuel a gambler?”

  Delahart shook his head. “That guy had a bunch of issues, but gambling wasn’t one of them. When Robinson and I took him to Vegas with us on the plane, I never saw him even put a quarter in a slot machine.”

  “What did he do for you?”

  “Whatever I asked. He was a mean son of a gun.”

  Chee left Delahart with Bahe and found Erdman in her office. She rose when he entered. “Hey. I owe you a big apology. You were right about that room. If I’d listened to you, we might have arrived in time to save that guy, or maybe see who shot him.”

  “You were doing your job. You did well up there. Very professional.”

  She handed him the surveillance tape.

  “Did you look at it?”

  “I saw the big guy who got killed getting out of the elevator. Room service bringing up the cart we saw. Miscellaneous men, women, teenagers, a guy with a hat. Old folks struggling with big suitcases, a couple sneaking in their dog.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Because of the way the building curves, you can’t see the door to the room where we found the dead guy. It’s a flaw in the way the camera was installed. I’m not sure how much this will help you.”

  “Agent Burke will be in touch if he needs something else.”

  She gave him a hotel business card with her name and extension. “Give him that, too. You know, I’d never seen a dead person before.”

  “They say you get used it. I never have.”

  “Do you really think I did OK?”

>   “You held your own just fine. If you ever get tired of doing this, you ought to consider becoming a real cop.”

  Chee typed up his report, relieved that this was not his case or his business. He included as many details as he could recall, even the most minor things, in part to demonstrate that he wasn’t some hick cop but mostly to get it out of his brain and to minimize contact with Burke in the future.

  He also typed out the notes from his interview with Mary Toledo about the bloody towels and the necklace. When he was done, he found Bahe at his desk on the phone. He motioned Chee to sit, and ended his call.

  “What’s your take on Delahart? Did he kill Samuel?”

  “Maybe. He strikes me as a guy who thinks the rules don’t apply to him. Maybe not. The sight of the body shocked him.” Chee took the poker chip out of his pocket. “Did I show you this?” He placed it on Bahe’s desktop. “I found it on the road where I saw that missing woman’s car, before we discovered the grave.”

  Bahe looked at the chip, turning it over in his hand. “They don’t use these at any casinos around here that I know of. Kind of pretty.”

  “I wonder if Delahart dropped it when he was out there supervising Samuel. Maybe he kept it as a good luck token or something.”

  “It didn’t work very well.” Bahe gave the chip back. “Maybe whoever shot Samuel was really after Delahart, but that’s a federal case. Our concern is still that grave. The bone fragments make it more complicated. Without that, we could have just ordered the movie folks to remove it. Now comes the wait for lab results to see if what we found was human.”

  Chee appreciated the “we,” even though he knew his discovery had caused the complications. “Will that take long?”

  “Normally, yes. But the medical examiner has some eager interns looking for stuff to do. We ought to know pretty soon.” Bahe stood. “Go back to your cousin’s place and get some rest if he’ll let you. You look beat.”