Song of the Lion Page 3

  “Basketball.” No one who grew up within thirty miles of Shiprock, or any town on the reservation, would have asked the question.

  “You have a nephew on the Shiprock team or something?”

  “No. It was a special game, the veterans versus the young hotshots.”

  He nodded once. “So, I guess that means there are more people here tonight than usual. I heard it was SRO.”

  “SRO?”

  “Standing room only.”

  Bernie laughed. “The games always draw a big crowd. Basketball rules the rez. People line up early with folding chairs and coolers, waiting to get into the Pit. If you want a seat, especially at any of the big rivalries, you have to be here for sure when the doors open for the B-team at four.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  The lot had partly emptied. Clusters of cars damaged by the explosion, and a few vehicles with flats from running over debris as they headed for the exit remained along with those cars and trucks that had picked tonight to die of natural causes. She saw the rookie looking at the damaged cars and officially introduced him to Cordova.

  “The wrecker I called just pulled up.” Sam stood straighter and sucked in his gut as he talked. “Where would you like him first?” She noticed that the rookie didn’t direct the question to her, but tossed it to Cordova.

  Cordova said, “I’ll brief him. Go back inside and talk to the potential witnesses. Take names of everyone and contact information. Make a note of anything that needs follow-up. The gal at the table by the door can help you.”

  She expected the rookie to balk, but he smiled. “Yes, sir. Glad to. Whatever you want. This is the first time I’ve been involved with a federal agent.”

  And then he was gone.

  Cordova said, “I’m going to talk to Palmer once more, see if he’s remembered anything else. What do you know about him?”

  “He’s a lawyer and lives in Arizona. He told me he’s had some threats and that no one has tried to kill him. Number twenty-three on his jersey. Good from the free throw line.”

  “Why don’t people like him?”

  “He didn’t say exactly, but he’s a lawyer.”

  The crime scene van was there now, she noticed, complete with a big brown dog straining on its leash. Cordova said, “There’s plenty of help around. Go on home. You did a good job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll need a statement from you. Make some notes and we can do that tomorrow.”

  Because she had arrived late, the only empty parking spots had been at the very back of the lot. At the time, she’d pictured herself enjoying the stroll back to her ride after the hours in the hot, stuffy gym. Now, she was glad she’d parked where she had because her car hadn’t been damaged. The poor Toyota had been too close to a fire that summer, and getting hit by shrapnel wouldn’t have improved things.

  A new car, or at least a different car with lower mileage and a working air conditioner, topped her wish list. But something always happened to divert whatever savings she managed to put away. When it came to a choice between replacing her car or helping relatives, there was no choice. And if she or Mama or Darleen needed a hand, her extended family came through for them. That was the Navajo Way.

  Bernie drove to the station. It wasn’t until she finished her report on the incident that she realized she could barely keep her eyes open. She wanted a shower to wash the smoke out of her hair, warm steam to lift away the sight of the injured person’s burned flesh. And then a cup of tea for her scratchy throat and a good book to help her forget. Chee must be long done with his shift and probably asleep. But maybe he’d waited up for her. Maybe he’d even fixed her a bite to eat.

  She arrived back at the trailer to find the lights on.

  3

  Jim Chee looked up from the movie he’d been watching on TV and smiled at her.

  “Sounds like you had quite a night. Smells like it, too.”

  Bernie put her backpack on the floor and stood next to the couch. She coughed. Chee muted the television.

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah, just tired and stinky.”

  “I heard about the explosion on the scanner. Did you have back-up?”

  “Eventually. The rookie got there first. Then the fire truck and ambulance, sheriff’s deputies, a state police car, and then Cordova. By the time he arrived, it was chaos.”

  “Did the rookie do OK?”

  “I guess. He found the one who was hurt. That guy . . .” She stopped, pushed away the memory.

  Chee turned off the TV. “I heard the ambulance took somebody to the hospital, so I guess the victim was still alive at least. I’m glad he didn’t die out there. I’m relieved to see you, honey.”

  And that, she knew, was why he was up, listening to the scanner with one ear while he watched TV, and not in bed as she’d expected. If the situation had been reversed, she would have done the same.

  He went to the kitchen. She heard the water running.

  “You want something? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

  “Whatever you’re having.” She coughed again.

  “Are you getting a cold?”

  “I think it’s smoke from the explosion. I’m jumping in the shower.”

  He handed her a garbage bag. “Put your clothes in here until we can wash them.”

  When she came out, she felt better. She listened to the rustle of dry leaves that still clung to the cottonwood trees along the San Juan River behind their little house, and the quiet song of the water, music that had swayed her heart and convinced her Chee’s trailer could be her home. She heard the whistle of the teakettle.

  Chee sat at the kitchen table. He had made fried bologna sandwiches to go with the hot chocolate.

  She smiled at him. “Thanks. How did you know I was starving?”

  “Because I’m a genius, in case you hadn’t noticed. But mostly because you’re always starving.”

  She could have argued the point, but instead she sipped the hot chocolate. “I would have loved some of this earlier tonight. I half froze out there in the parking lot.”

  “I bet.”

  She watched him take a bite. Chee could eat voraciously, any time of the day or night, and never gain an ounce.

  She savored her sandwich, happy to be safe with the man she loved.

  Chee took the plates to the sink.

  “You want more hot chocolate? I can make some with my magic recipe. No trouble.”

  “Does your magic recipe involve a packet and hot water?”

  “The secret’s in the wrist.” He demonstrated a stirring motion. “Kind of like basketball.”

  “Right.”

  “So, who won the game?”

  “I don’t know. I got kind of busy after the bomb went off.”

  “Did many of the championship guys show up?”

  “Yes, enough for a bunch of substitutes. I’d love more hot chocolate. I’m still cold from the parking lot.”

  Chee took her cup and turned back to the counter. “I can feel you watching me. Are you trying to steal my recipe?”

  “Never. Then I’d have to make my own hot chocolate.”

  He poured the water, stirred, came back to the table, and put the cup in front of her. She noticed tiny white specks on the light brown froth.

  “What are these?”

  “Miniature marshmallows, of course.”

  “Of course. Did you make them, too?”

  “I’m not telling.” He slid into the chair next to her. “Do you know whose car blew up? Or was it a truck?”

  “It belonged to one of the all-stars. Aza Palmer. He said it was a BMW, his baby.”

  Chee said, “And there were no more bombs, no sniper attacks, nothing like that?”

  “No, thank goodness.” She stirred the hot chocolate, watching the marshmallows dissolve. “There are other reasons for cars to explode, but I’m betting, with a new car like that, it was a bomb.”

  “I think so, too. If y
ou want to kill someone, there are simpler ways. But if you want to make a statement . . .” He left the thought hanging. “Car bombs are a terrorist weapon, designed to spread panic. Usually the organization behind the bombing brags about it. Maybe they’ve called in something to the FBI, you know, taking the credit?”

  “Whoever did this didn’t make a very clear statement tonight. An incinerated BMW, a couple rows of damaged vehicles, a whole bunch of annoyed basketball fans and scared kids and parents. I thought it was interesting that Palmer seemed so cool about the incident. He felt bad about his car, but he didn’t seem worried that someone probably wanted to kill him. He said it went with the business.”

  “The business?”

  “He’s a lawyer. I guess he deals with criminal cases. He must have good insurance.” She sipped her chocolate. “How was your shift?”

  “Nothing like yours. The bootlegger vanished before I got there. I arrested a drunk for speeding. Lots of time to think about the meaning of life.” Chee put his cup in the sink. “Let’s get to bed, honey. We’re leaving early for your mama’s place tomorrow, remember? I promised to move the loom so she can use it. You wanted to get that done before your shift.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” She tapped her cup. “As soon as I’m done with this.”

  “There was a message from your mother on the phone when I got home. She said she’d have Kneel Down Bread for us tomorrow.”

  Bernie laughed. “Great. I love that ntsidigo’i’, especially in November.”

  “Yeah, it’s good that your mother froze some of what you two made last summer. I think it will taste even better now.”

  Bernie finished her chocolate. She took the phone out of her backpack, plugged it into the charger, and noticed a missed call from Mama’s house. It was too late to call now. Darleen would still be up, but she didn’t want to deal with her little sister—she’d had enough drama for one night.

  She switched on the ringer, as they both did each night, in case there was an emergency with Mama or at the station. By the time she got to bed, Chee was snoring lightly.

  She thought about the loom. He had made it for her with his own hands in the traditional way as a wedding gift. She had planned to use it but never seemed to find the time. She’d call herself an advanced beginner when it came to weaving. She’d enjoyed it, but other things crowded her calendar. Mama had a student now, Officer Bigman’s wife, and a loom at the house would make it easier for them to work together. Mama enjoyed teaching Mrs. Bigman and talked about her all the time. She enjoyed seeing Mama happy, but felt like a bystander in this new relationship.

  Bernie had just turned off her reading light and snuggled next to Chee when the phone rang. Had something happened to Mama? Then she breathed a sigh of relief. It was Chee’s phone.

  In Jim Chee’s world, a phone call after ten p.m. never brought good news unless a friend or relative was expecting a baby. None of his relatives were pregnant.

  He rose and made his way to the bathroom, where his phone lay charging. The screen read “Largo.” Chee seldom cursed but he thought about it.

  The captain got to the point. “I need you to come in to the station now. You know about the explosion at the high school? Bernie fill you in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Largo said, “Do you know who Aza Palmer is?”

  “The guy whose car blew up.”

  Largo said, “He’s also the man running the mediation in Tuba City, Tó Naneesdizí. You know about that?”

  “No, sir.”

  He heard Largo exhale. “Where have you been, man? There’s a big meeting about a new proposal for a resort on Navajo land near the Grand Canyon. Our tribal officials, bigwigs from the Hopi, the Havasupai, Hualapai, environmentalists, developers, federal government agency types, Arizona state officials, academics, bureaucrats, you name it. Maybe even some Paiutes. They’ll all be there, and Palmer is the ringmaster.”

  “Ringmaster?”

  “The person in charge of keeping things moving.”

  Chee took the phone into the bedroom and found his clothes. He wished Largo would get to the point.

  “This guy Palmer is the mediator, the one who runs the meeting. The attack at the school may have had something to do with that. The issue is a big controversy.”

  He felt the questions pile up, but he knew Largo had more to tell him.

  “Sergeant, this comes from the chief. Pack an overnight bag, get yourself down here, and plan to be gone for a few days. I’ll tell you the rest when you get to the station.”

  “Now? You’re in the office, sir?”

  “Yep. Me and Mr. Palmer are here and I wanna go home.”

  Chee silently grumbled into his clean uniform. He looked at Bernie, the blankets pulled up to her chin and still irresistible, her beautiful dark hair flowing loose, catching the light from the bathroom. She opened her eyes.

  It was impossible to keep a secret from someone when you spoke on the phone in a trailer. Not that he wanted to. He told her all the details he knew. “I know you’d like this assignment. I hope you aren’t jealous.”

  She chuckled. “Jealous? No way. I already worked tonight, and I wasn’t even on duty. Why can’t it wait until morning?”

  “I’ll find out when I get to the station, but I bet you a doughnut I’m driving to Tuba City.” He took his duffel from beneath the bed and folded in T-shirts, socks, underwear.

  Bernie sat up. “Stay in touch, OK? And take some long johns. It’s freezing out there.”

  “I’ll text you when I know what’s up.” That way, if she was asleep, he wouldn’t wake her.

  His breath looked like white steam inside his truck, and Chee knew it wouldn’t get warm in the time it took to drive to the station. His police unit would be cold, too. But the call made him curious, distracted him from the discomfort. An assignment from the chief. That was a first.

  He found Largo at his desk and a tall Navajo in a Chieftains jacket and matching red warm-up pants pacing and fiddling with his cell phone. He’d never met Aza Palmer, but Chee had seen his photo in the article about the reunion game. From the story, he knew Palmer was about his age, but the man’s face was lined and his hair gray at the temples. Hard living, Chee thought, or maybe some underlying medical issue.

  The captain made introductions and told them to sit. He got to the point quickly. “Cordova noticed one of the flyers in the gym, the one from Save Wild America calling for demonstrations at the meeting at Tuba City. He knew the group had been involved in violence in California, including a bomb that did major damage and sent some folks to prison. Mr. Palmer has received threatening e-mails from them questioning his motives and his character.”

  Palmer folded his hands in his lap and looked at Chee. “That kind of suspicion is totally misinformed. The mediation brings together the major parties with an interest in and disagreement over the plans for the resort. My job is to keep the conversation civil, on point, and help the parties involved reach some sort of resolution. I’m the referee, not the star player.” He straightened in his chair and glanced at Chee. “I tried to keep him from calling you. You guys are overreacting. If someone had wanted to do serious damage, they would have used a bigger bomb and timed it to explode when the game ended. Or just shot me.”

  Largo drummed his fingers on the desk. “Tell Chee what happened after you left the Pit tonight.”

  “I couldn’t drive my car, of course, so I called Katie, my clan sister, to pick me up after the FBI guy had asked me the same questions several times. I’d planned to spend the night at her place anyway. Well, this car she hadn’t seen before blocked the entrance to her road. Somebody got out and started waving at us, motioning for her to stop. I wanted to talk to him, find out what he was up to. But Katie couldn’t tell who it was and what happened at the gym spooked her.”

  Chee noticed the calmness in the man’s voice, the tone of a person who had looked danger in the face more than once.

  Palmer took a brea
th and continued. “Then the person started to follow us, right on her bumper. She came here. When she turned into the lot, the other car drove on. Katie called her boyfriend, and he came down, drove home with her, checked things out. Everything was cool at her place, so I assume the incident was about me.”

  Largo leaned in toward Chee. “The chief called me at home after he heard about the bomb at the gym. He takes this seriously. We don’t want the Navajo Nation to be embarrassed by an incident in Tuba. The mediation session is on our home turf. We have to make sure the star of the show stays safe.”

  Palmer started to protest, but Largo waved him quiet. “Chee, drive Palmer to Tuba in your unit, check into the hotel with him, and stay there until the feds get a handle on this.”

  Chee grimaced. “You mean, like a bodyguard?”

  “More than that. The chief wants you to be on the lookout for any kind of trouble that might disrupt the talks, not just threats to Palmer.” Largo held his hands out. “The chief remembered that you’d spent some time in Tuba City. The other officers there have their hands full keeping up with the protesters, the other bigwigs, you name it. I’ll tell the captain in Tuba what’s up.”

  Chee frowned. He’d worked with the chief when the man was a captain, before he rose to head the 250-officer Navajo Police Department The man was a decent officer, a good yarn spinner, and a superb politician. Chee wished that he’d made less of an impression. He didn’t sign on as a cop to be a bodyguard and chauffeur.

  Palmer said, “This is ridiculous. Chee can take me back to Katie’s place tonight. I’d like to check on her. I’ll rent a car tomorrow in Farmington.”

  Chee liked the idea, but he knew the captain well enough to understand the situation offered no room for debate.

  “Here’s what’s happening.” Largo used the same voice he reserved for scolding those who came to complain about something based on rumors and anti-cop prejudice. “Contact your clan sister and get her to bring the stuff you need to the motel. You’re safer without a car for the next few days. Chee will make sure nothing disturbs the mediation and embarrasses the Navajo Nation. We don’t want to see you dead, you don’t want that either. Do us all a favor. Cooperate.”