Dark Reservations (9 page)

Joe sat in silence, not sure what to say to comfort this woman, not sure if she even wanted him to try.

“Do you know what it's like to lose someone?” she asked. “Someone you love and care about. And then when they're gone, you realize you can't move on. You're stuck. Stuck because you can't get closure. You can't understand why that person was taken. And you somehow feel responsible. Do you know what that's like?”

Joe knew. He knew all too well. He looked at the woman in front of him. He wanted to hug her and tell her he understood. Tell her that was exactly how he'd felt ever since Christine died. Instead, he did something he knew he shouldn't. Maybe something he couldn't.

“I'll do my best to find out what happened to your sister.”

Her expression seemed to convey doubt, but she didn't voice her feelings. Instead, she stood, shook his hand, turned, and walked out without a backward glance.

Joe stayed in the room for another ten minutes, considered their conversation. Then he went back into Dale's office.

Dale was on the phone, so Joe plopped in the seat in front of his desk and waited. He listened to Dale tell the person on the other end about the bullet holes and that the old man had remembered seeing blood. He gave Joe a look that said, Get the hell out of my face. Joe ignored it. He guessed this was Dale's third or fourth phone call. On high-profile cases, the big bosses never wanted to wait to read the reports. They always demanded verbal updates. Everyone was afraid to be caught outside the circle of knowledge. After a few minutes, Dale hung up.

“I want the case back.”

Dale said nothing, but his mouth moved a few times, as though he were practicing what he would say, Joe had caught him off guard. “Forget it. Not after that stunt. I'm giving it to Cordelli.”

Joe tasted his own pride as it slipped down his throat. “I'm sorry. I was wrong. I shouldn't have kept you out of the loop. It won't happen again. I'll keep you updated from here on out.”

“I can't trust you anymore. I should have known that when I gave it to you. No way. Cordelli gets it.”

“Dale, you were right. I need this. I do. I need it.”

“No.”

Joe had one last card to play.

“I'll rescind my retirement paperwork.”

That caught Dale's attention. “You can't. It's too late.”

“I called HR.” He hadn't. “I can. And if you try to fight it, I'll file an appeal, which could take a good part of a year to settle.”

Dale picked up his desk phone, probably to check with Human Resources.

Joe hurried on: “Or … you can let me run with the Edgerton case. Come three months, whatever happens, I leave. No problems. You don't even have to attend my retirement party.”

Dale put down the phone. He didn't say anything for several moments. Then he leaned forward, his words slow, menacing.

“Okay. Run with it. But if you screw with me, I
will
file those negligence actions against you for the Longman case, retirement or no retirement. You got me?”

S
EPTEMBER
27

M
ONDAY
, 10:10
A.M.

U
NIVERSITY
OF
N
EW
M
EXICO
, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO

The yellow Post-it note stuck to Professor Lawrence Trudle's office door read “Larry, Congratulations. Meeting 10:30 conference room. RW.” Professor Trudle peeled the note off the stained wood, crumpled it, and shoved it in his pocket. He unlocked the door, walked in, and went straight to his credenza, on which sat a four-cup electric teakettle. He dropped his bulging ostrich-skin briefcase, which his wife had given him the previous Christmas, to the floor and extracted a gallon jug of springwater from the bottom cabinet of the same credenza. Then he filled the kettle and turned it on. Next, he opened the top right drawer to his desk and reached all the way to the back, behind the selection of Bigelow teas, and pulled out a Folgers coffee single. He unwrapped the string and placed the small coffee bag in his
Who's Your Mummy?
coffee mug. Finished with his morning routine, he dropped into his desk chair to await the click of the kettle, a beautiful sound signaling the water had reached a boil and it was time to sin.

Professor Trudle was the only Mormon in the University of New Mexico's Anthropology Department, so one would have thought he wouldn't worry about his colleagues catching him drinking coffee, giving into the allure of the black nectar, which meant breaking his vow to abstain from caffeine. But one would have been wrong. Professor Trudle preferred to sin in private.

He removed his glasses and set them down on his desk. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, closed his eyes, leaned back, and waited for the click.

“Knock! Knock!” a voice barked.

Professor Steve Mercado stood at the door, beaming.

“Good morning, Steve.”

“And what a fine morning it is, Professor Trudle. Yes indeedy. A fine morning, made even finer by the good news of a grant. Am I the first to congratulate you?”

Steve walked in and plopped down on one of the chairs used by students during office hours.

“No. You are the second. I got a warm and friendly posty from our esteemed department head with, as I am sure you are aware, a rather surprising announcement of a meeting. I suspect he wants to share the good news with our fellow faculty. I was just contemplating his true motivation when you so crassly interrupted my somber meditation.”

“I apologize, but your somber meditation looked curiously like napping.” Steve withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket. Holding it lightly between his right thumb and forefinger, he tapped it against his left palm.

“Apology accepted. Any idea why Westerberry is having this meeting? And don't say he wants to celebrate my good news. That's horse pucky and you know it.”

“Whoa, watch the language. No, I believe it's to gloat on one of your past misadventures—the Trudle Turkey.”

On the bookcase beside Steve sat Lawrence's three published books. The second book,
Anasazi Lineage to the Aztec,
was the smallest of the three, but it had caused him the greatest chagrin in his career.

He planted both elbows on the desk and hung his head in his hands.

“I guess as an archaeologist you can never get away from the past.” Steve grinned. “And with Edgerton all over the news, I guess Westerberry sees an opportunity to poke fun.”

Lawrence rubbed his temples.

“What do you mean?”

“He's going to mention Edgerton, and you'll take the bait and say that Edgerton's disappearance is linked to your stolen artifacts. But you won't stop there. You'll say that those artifacts prove your theories and blah, blah, blah.”

“But it's true.”

“I'm not going to argue the history of the Anasazi with you. I'm just saying he's setting the stage for you to embarrass yourself … again.”

Lawrence picked up his glasses and set them back on his face.

Steve continued. “If you go in there and react, our esteemed colleagues are going to laugh behind your back like they did when you published your book without proof.”

“Did you laugh, too?”

“No. I did the ‘I told you so' thing, remember? And if you go to this meeting and play into his hands, I'm going to do the ‘I told you so' thing again.”

“But if they find Edgerton, perhaps—”

“Look. You earned this grant. You put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into getting the committee to approve it. Westerberry knows that and knows you deserve the recognition. But he would love to temper your success with a poke at your Anasazi fiasco. Don't give him the satisfaction. Don't let him bait you.”

The kettle clicked off.

“Come on, sinner, grab your coffee and let's go.”

Surprised, Lawrence turned to the teakettle. Next to the kettle sat his mug, the Folgers label dangling down the side.

S
EPTEMBER
27

M
ONDAY
, 11:07
A.M.

B
UREAU
OF
I
NDIAN
A
FFAIRS
, O
FFICE
OF
I
NVESTIGATIONS
, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO

Joe was typing up a transfer document for one of his cases when he heard a commotion by the office entrance. He stepped out of his cubicle to see what was happening. Cordelli, Stretch, Sadi, and Tenny were guffawing as they passed Ginny's desk. They went silent when they saw Joe.

“What's up, tiger?” Cordelli asked.

Tenny snickered.

They were all wearing cargo pants. An op?

“Did I miss something this morning?” Joe asked.

Cordelli walked past Joe, close enough to brush elbows. “I had an arrest.”

“We knew you were busy with the Edgerton thing,” Stretch said.

“Yeah, busy. That's new.” Sadi snorted.

Joe ignored her comment. She was the only female on the squad, and her attitude was as tightly wound as her hair, which she kept in a taut bun at the back of her head. She was a good agent, efficient and tough, never trying to prove herself, because she didn't have to. She'd spent nine years as a criminal investigator in the Pueblo of Zuni before joining the BIA.

“Fine,” Joe said. He'd lost their respect.

Sadi and Tenny went to their desks. Stretch hung back.

“Come on,” Stretch said. “Let's take a ride.”

“Where?” But it really didn't matter. Joe didn't want to be in the office.

“Pueblo Pintado. I gotta find a guy.”

“For Sadi?”

Stretch looked toward her cubicle. “Don't let her hear you say that.”

On the way out, Ginny handed Joe a FedEx package. It was the case file on Arlen Edgerton. Joe took it with him.

S
EPTEMBER
27

M
ONDAY
, 11:56
A.M.

S
TATE
R
OUTE
550, S
ANDOVAL
C
OUNTY
, N
EW
M
EXICO

Route 550 cuts through Zia Pueblo, a small community northeast of Albuquerque. The brown and beige of the New Mexican desert turns slightly greener there, mostly due to the Jemez River, which borders the road to the east. But the scenery didn't interest Joe. He'd been reading the Edgerton file for the past thirty minutes, allowing Stretch to navigate the winding road in silence. But now, having skimmed most of the file and realizing there had been few leads developed back when the congressman went missing, he felt he needed a break.

“What's in Pueblo Pintado?”

“Shit, you're still here,” Stretch said.

“Sorry, I needed to cool off.”

“It's all right. We're going to see Eddie Begay. He's in front of the grand jury tomorrow, but he's not answering his phone.”

“Sounds like he doesn't want to testify.”

Stretch nodded. “Probably not. Thing is, he's the whole case. No physical evidence. I want to take him back to Albuquerque and stash him in a hotel. He likes the bottle. We can't depend on him to show.”

“Like me?”

Stretch looked at Joe, then turned away.

“Is that why you guys didn't tell me about the arrest this morning? Am I undependable, too?”

“You know that's not—”

“Don't bullshit me.”

Stretch didn't answer right away. Instead, he stared out the windshield at the barren desert to the west. Joe waited.

“They feel you're washed-up. Cordelli doesn't think you can do the job any longer. He's saying you've lost your edge.”

“He's an asshole. And he's still wet behind the ears. I'm over the hill, yeah, but I haven't lost my edge.”

“It's not just him. Tenny and Sadi agree. They don't trust you. They don't think your head's in the game anymore. Ever since the Longman trial. Maybe even before then.”

“Screw Tenny. The guy never had a thought in his head unless Cordelli put it there.”

“What about Sadi? She calls it straight.”

Joe had no answer.

They were passing the southern edge of Fenton Lake State Park. Half a dozen crows circled over a wooded area to the east, perhaps planning to kill one of their own who lay injured on the ground below. They were known to do that. Was he projecting? Maybe. Joe had heard enough truth about himself. “So what's your case about?”

“Our guy got jammed up on a CSA and squealed. He told the FBI he sold a Navajo artifact to some collector in Santa Fe. They called us because they knew we tried to bust the same buyer a few years back.”

“Who's that?”

“Arthur Othmann. He likes to spend his daddy's fortune on art.”

“And the artifact?”

“Begay chiseled off a thousand-year-old petroglyph from Chaco Canyon.”

“Bold little bastard. What's something like that go for?”

“He only got twenty-five hundred. He's a pedophile and an idiot.”

They rode in silence for a little ways, the conversation seeming to have reached a natural ebb. Joe tried to appreciate the land around him. In a few months, he might never work in the field again. Almost all the jobs he'd responded to were deskbound. Except for one, an insurance adjuster for a small firm out of Rio Rancho. The pay sucked, but at least it wouldn't be all pushing paper. And he'd be able to do most of that from home, e-mailing in his reports. But they hadn't called him back. Maybe he should send them a follow-up letter. He supposed, if he had to, he could live just on his pension for a little while, but he wouldn't be able to help Melissa with college or pay off the rest of Christine's medical bills.