Grave Consequences (22 page)

“Observe, scout it out, learn about your enemy. Sounds like a good strategy.”

“Any idea if Clarence will be there? He suffers from poor judgment in these matters,” Charlie replied, knowing he'd be leaving his Beretta in his Charger and be defenseless except for his hand-to-hand skills and the lockback knife in his right front pocket.

“I've never seen him with her at tribal functions.”

“They spend a lot of time together in Albuquerque. His mom has a lot of influence over him and she apparently finances their illegal operations.”

“Then maybe his legitimate work keeps him from attending. You said he runs the restaurant, right?”

“Yes, sir. If he has any common sense at all, he'll be keeping a low profile, like Al,” Charlie added, looking up as his mother came out from the house, accompanied by the wonderful scent of fry bread.

“You two need to come in and clean up. Then we can have a snack. Dinner doesn't begin until seven, and I know how you two love to eat.”

*   *   *

That evening, when they took their seats for dinner in one of the community college's meeting rooms, Charlie spotted Sheila Ben immediately. The woman was seated several tables over with three middle-aged Navajo couples—tribal honchos, he imagined.

He'd never seen her up close under normal lighting, just a photo, but the woman was exceptional looking. There was a silver streak in her ebony hair, and she had high cheekbones, full lips, and a face reminiscent of Irene Bedard, one of the few Native American actresses he recalled. In that respect Sheila didn't look that Navajo, her face was too long. Of course, Navajo women weren't all the same, either. Or maybe she had Plains Indian blood in her.

Cordell Buck had undoubtedly been a willing volunteer for the desk job that got her fired. There were a lot of attractive Navajo and Native American women Charlie had met over the years, but this lady, even in her early fifties, was beautiful.

They'd made eye contact for a moment when he initially glanced in that direction, and except for a slight furrowing of her brow, there'd been no reaction. Experienced at maintaining subtle surveillance for hours at a time while on an urban operation, Charlie positioned himself so he could keep watch out of the corner of his eye. Something told him Sheila would be keeping an eye on his behavior as well.

Dinner came quickly, the five-star equivalent of Navajo tacos, green chile stew instead of mutton stew—
thank God
—and lighter-than-air fry bread with honey and plenty of butter. It was almost as good as what Mom made, Charlie decided.

The meal reminded him of where he was—the Din
í
tah, Navajo country. Charlie hadn't been around that many members of his tribe at the same time since the parade down Highway 64, Shiprock's main street. Until tonight he'd never seen that many men in his tribe wearing suits either.

Charlie had grown up among bolo ties, flannel, Levi jackets, sweatshirts, jeans, cowboy hats, and boots. Even his dad, the judge, dressed casual unless his job or meeting required it. His mom wore more traditional clothes, a many-pleated, long skirt and velvet blouse with a multistranded liquid silver necklace instead of the heavy squash blossoms that seemed to be in great abundance tonight.

That brought his thoughts back to how his latest quest all started, and he took another glance in the direction of Sheila. She had on a black dress with a little cleavage enhanced by a single strand of white pearls—something more suitable for Albuquerque society than Rez dress. Judging from the attention she was getting from the men—and women—at her table, she was getting her share of admiration and envy.

Why a woman with her assets and obvious intelligence had turned to a life of crime was beyond him, but, then, he knew little about her.

As they were finishing dessert, there were speeches, three or four, Charlie lost count because they all seemed pretty much the same. He wasn't tuned into the subjects, but tried to make it look like he was listening. His dad and mom made a show of it, but he knew them well enough to see they were bored as well. They kept smiling back and forth, and for all he knew, they were playing footsie under the table. He focused on watching the guests.

Finally the speeches were replaced with live music—guitars, drums, and even a violin—fiddle around here. Country music worked for Indians as well as for cowboys, and his parents got up to dance.

He was thinking of finishing off his mother's flan when he smelled perfume. Charlie turned and watched as Sheila Ben sat down next to him.

 

Chapter Nineteen

“Good evening, Charlie. I thought I'd take this opportunity to come by and introduce myself. We obviously know about each other, but we've never officially met.”

Sheila was no traditionalist, and fortunately wasn't holding a weapon or cutlery at the moment, so he shook her hand. Her grip was strong, but she wasn't flirting, just trying to convey a message.

“Ma'am,” he responded, trying not to smile at the contrast between her relaxed composure and the reality of their relationship. He'd never been face-to-face with such an attractive criminal and possible killer, yet here she was.

“Love your family restaurant,” he said, not eager to discuss anything meaningful. “Your son runs a tight ship.”

“Most of the time. Lately, though, we've had a few setbacks.”

“Nothing consequential, I hope. Your waitstaff and chef are certainly without equal. I look forward to dining there again soon.”

“I thought you'd moved on and were now dining at another local restaurant. The Firehouse Tavern, I believe. Word is that you've recently cultivated a friendship with the man who runs the place. It turns out we have mutual interests.”

Clearly she was referring to Mike Schultz, letting him know her connection to the attempt on Lola Tso. Sheila also knew that he and Gordon had been involved in that incident. He looked into her eyes, realizing they were more hazel than brown, trying to see where she was going with this next. She held his gaze, her face hardening slightly.

“Then I guess I have to pay you a return visit before too long, Mrs. Ben.”

“We'll try to make it an experience you'll remember the rest of your life,” she said, her voice becoming hard.

“And you as well,” he replied.

The song abruptly ended and dancers began to return to their tables. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his parents approaching.

Sheila stood, then reached out and touched his shoulder. “You're a killer. Don't you dare hurt my son,” she ordered in a whisper.

“That's up to you, isn't it?” Charlie responded, looking her straight in the eyes.

“If you hurt him, I'll hunt down and kill your entire family,” she whispered harshly. Her nails dug into his shoulder for a second, then she turned and walked away gracefully, head held high, as if she'd just shared a few congenial minutes with an old friend.

“That was Sheila Ben. You know her?” his mom asked as they arrived at the table.

Charlie looked at his father, who shook his head just slightly.

“Her son and I have met. He runs a restaurant near Old Town,” Charlie replied off-handedly. “The Pi
ñ
on Mesa Steakhouse.”

His mother smiled. “I don't like her, but I'm not really sure why. She seems a little too … duplicitous.”

“I agree,” Al Senior replied. “What did she have to say, Charlie?”

“Just discussing business,” he replied, hoping to have a chance later to talk this over while Mom wasn't around. Dad was very protective of Mom—all the kids were—and there was no sense in giving his mother information that could put her in danger.

“Just business, my behind,” his mother responded immediately. “You and your brother have been involved in something over in Albuquerque ever since that silversmith got killed near the tribal casino. This woman has a shady past and she's making way too much money from that restaurant of hers. I can put two and two together. There are a lot of Navajos involved in what's been going on in the criminal world lately, and she's part of that, isn't she?”

Charlie looked at his father, who shrugged. “She's smarter than the both of us, son. I haven't said a word.”

“I was a teacher for thirty years, Al. I'm a great detective too, and I know when someone's trying to keep a secret. When Charlie shows up for the first time in months, the day after Al gets shot in Albuquerque doing something he can't talk about, I know something's not right. Now tell me, you two, unless you want me to go beat it out of Sheila. She's a few years younger, but I think I can take her.”

His mom grinned right then, and Charlie grinned back. He already knew how strong his mother really was, at least in mind and spirit. But he also didn't want to overanalyze that grin—he already knew how dangerous the other members of his family could be. Mom too?

Not wanting to ruin the dinner with the threat of a middle-aged chick fight either, he decided it was time to tell her—and Dad, what had just transpired.

*   *   *

“Hey, Gordon, you still up?” Charlie asked, talking into the cell phone on the console as he drove north on Highway 291, still in the town of Shiprock—barely. He'd left his parents' home twenty minutes ago and was headed for Al's house, which was located in a tribal housing development northwest of what passed for downtown.

“No, this is his answering machine. What's going on in Indian country? Your father any help?” Gordon replied.

Charlie could hear a television set in the background, and what sounded like a football game. His pal recorded several games a week, then watched them late at night.

He told Gordon the news about Sheila and the casino sex-tape frame-up, then finished up with tonight's encounter with the woman. By then, he was easing up the street toward his brother's boxy home at the end of the block.

“She's got balls, letting you know that she knows we know, then ending with a threat against your family. Sounds like us,” Gordon said, “well, except for that family retribution part.”

“Sorry. Guess we'll have to stay even higher up on our toes. At least she's worried, and aware of what we can do,” Charlie added, pulling up to the curb in front of Al's home.

“She'll either go on the defensive or strike hard and fast.”

“If Clarence has any say about it, they'll try one last hit—hoping to take us all out, you, me, Al, and Lola,” Charlie concluded.

“Ah, but remember what your father said about the casino job. There's probably at least one more target on her list.”

“You're right. The guy who took her place—Buck's relative, Nolan Bitsillie. He's got protection at the casino, and probably, since Cordell was taken out, a bodyguard or two. I imagine he also has casino security at his disposal wherever he goes,” Charlie said.

“You gonna warn him?”

“Unless he's stupid, he's already watching his back, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to talk to him. It's late, but the casino is open all night. Maybe I can catch up to him.”

“Okay, good luck. Stay safe, Charlie.”

“Always.” Charlie ended the call, and looked over at the house. The driveway was empty, so Al's pickup was probably in the single-car garage. According to their mom, Nedra and the boys had been sent to stay at her dad's house just this afternoon, so it was impossible to know if anyone was inside. No lights were on either. Al was avoiding attention.

His phone rang. It was Al.

“It's me. You ready to take a ride?” Charlie asked.

*   *   *

The casino was located on Navajo Nation land between Shiprock and Farmington, the largest city in the Four Corners, and the drive normally took less than twenty minutes. Charlie and Al, however, weren't going there directly. Al, at Charlie's urging, called the casino office on the way and arranged to meet Bitsillie, the manager, at a truck stop caf
é
across the highway from the casino.

“Bitsillie was eager to talk when I told him I had news about the death of his cousin Cordell,” Al commented, sitting forward in the bucket seat just a little, favoring his injury.

“And you didn't lie—you
were
part of the investigation into his death,” Charlie responded, checking his rearview mirror for the third time in five minutes. Despite the late hour, there was a lot of traffic on the road and he'd have a hard time spotting a tail.

“Yeah, but if he calls my boss I'm screwed. I was yanked from the case the moment I got shot.”

“No pain, no gain,” Charlie replied, then gave his brother a big grin. “But now we know the motive, and that should help, right, Sherlock?”

“Yeah, I guess so. It's damn strange, though, coming from our dad. A cop is supposed to sleuth this out. We got lucky.”

“You make your own luck, Al. Hard work and all that shit. If you can get a shortcut every once in a while, take it.”

“I'll just be glad when this is all over. We still need hard evidence to arrest Clarence, Sheila, or whoever did the deed,” Al said, awkwardly bringing out his department weapon with his uninjured left hand and checking the magazine. “And I'm not much help shooting lefty if we run into the Night Crew.”

“Their numbers have declined, I'd imagine. I've got your back tonight,” Charlie assured.

“That'll do. Wish your buddy Gordon was here, though.”

“He's saved my ass too many times to count, Al. There's no better backup, that's for sure,” Charlie admitted. “Someday I'll have to tell you some of those stories.”

“Maybe later. Here we are.” Al nodded toward the turn as he placed his weapon back into his holster.

The casino was so brightly lit it could be seen for miles, but the area glow also made it impossible to miss the truck stop. Charlie slowed, signaled, then made the right turn into the asphalt parking lot surrounding the fuel pumps and drove to a slot in front of the caf
é
. About ten eighteen wheelers and a few smaller rigs were parked in rows about a hundred yards across the lot. No one was visible in or around the trucks. The drivers were either in the sack, having a late dinner or early breakfast, or across the highway losing money.