Grave Consequences (3 page)

DuPree nodded. “Your people verified that in their statements. Tell me again how the alleged boyfriend reacted.”

“For a second I think he considered taking a swing at me. Then he turned around and cussed his way out the door.”

“According to the others, you later warned them that the guy would probably be back, either with the girl or looking for a fight. That's the way it went down?” DuPree asked.

“Yeah, pretty much. I told Ruth that she could go home early today, but she said this was her job and she'd stand with us,” Charlie said.

“Yeah, that woman's got a lot of character—and brave as hell after all she's gone through,” DuPree added.

Charlie nodded. Everyone on the staff, and especially Detective DuPree, knew about Ruth's past, and respected her for what she'd accomplished. He was also one of the few who knew who she really was, and the secrets she was still keeping.

“I asked the same question to everyone, so now I'm asking you. You've never had any dealings with the deceased shooter, Mario Savaadra?”

“No,” Charlie replied. He didn't enjoy hearing the name of the man he and Gordon had killed inside the shop. He was no traditionalist, but there was a Navajo taboo that cautioned against naming the dead. During his military service he'd seen way too many bodies and he lived with that every day and night. But today it had again become all too personal.

“Well, at least everyone on the staff is in agreement there. Jake ran through your computer records and we didn't get any hits on the deceased there either,” DuPree admitted.

“The copies of the surveillance feed given to the crime scene unit go back six months. If your people find any faces that match that of the dead man, so be it, but we never recall doing business with him, at least since Gordon and I bought the place.”

“Your staff has a good memory for faces, so I'm not going in that direction, at least not yet.”

“Then are we about done here?” Charlie asked, seeing DuPree closing up his notebook.

“I'm done,” the detective said, standing and looking out through the Plexiglas office window at the three techs in white lab coats still in the shop. “And it looks like they're stowing away their gear. But before you start cleaning up tonight, Charlie, you'll need to take a lot of photos of the damage,” he said, looking over at the splintered wood frame where a bullet had passed through the office. “It doesn't look like this room suffered any damage beyond the bullet strikes. They missed your electronics and the Plexiglas partitions, too. I could use your luck. How do you do it?”

Charlie recalled that old line about “luck favoring the prepared mind.”
If he and Gordon were so damned lucky, how come people had been shooting at them for the last ten years? When was it ever going to stop?

“Just clean living, Detective DuPree,” Charlie said, standing and reaching over for his camera. He always took photos of expensive or interesting looking pawn, so he kept it handy, but his insurance agent would need the details. The next few hours he and Gordon were going to be busy.

“Also, you and Sweeney can expect a visit from the D.A.'s office with more questions about today, especially after your past history with the department. I'm betting you'll both be cleared on the shooting, especially once their people view the video, but they may have some questions about your pursuit of the shooters and the hostage situation. On your side, however, is the fact that you rescued Mrs. Tamura and she was unharmed. With your military records and the favorable outcomes of the incidents last year, I doubt you'll have any trouble.”

Charlie's phone vibrated just then, and he pulled it out of his pocket to look at the display. “How the hell did he find out about this so soon?” Charlie muttered, reading the text message.

DuPree, at the door, turned, the question on his lips.

“It's my brother, Alfred, a tribal cop. He's on his way here now,” Charlie pointed out. “Al says
he's
on the case.”

“Oh, shit. There's
two
of you?” DuPree responded. Then he looked down at Charlie's phone. “What the hell? This is
my
case.”

*   *   *

Charlie's brother, Al, an officer in the tribal police for nearly a decade, appeared at the back door of the pawnshop a half hour later. DuPree had left, headed downtown to raise hell with his captain.

“What's with the retired gangbanger look, Al?” Charlie asked, barely recognizing his shaven-headed older brother. Alfred was clad in a baggy, long-sleeved T-shirt with some indiscernible words scrawled across the chest. His pants were dark brown, baggy as well, and his shoes were almost normal—for a working man in the 1950s.

“Like your boots, Al. Get them at the thrift store?”

“Yeah. Engineer boots are hard to find these days. I'm working to fit in with a rougher crowd, which is why I had to approach from the alley, Chuckie.”

Charlie resisted the urge to react to his brother's favorite means of antagonism. They'd teased each other with nicknames all the way through high school. “Then don't be standing around outside. Come on in, bro.”

“Hey, Gordon,” Al said, stepping inside and reaching out his hand to shake, something traditional Navajos still did only reluctantly. Al, like Charlie, was anything but traditional. Gordon had met Charlie's brother a few years ago.

“Good to see you again, Al,” Gordon said, a smile on his face. “Shiny skull, huh? You working undercover?”

Al closed the door behind him, then ran his big hand across his bald head. “Yeah. After I heard what happened here today, I thought there might be a connection with my own investigation.”

“The Cordell Buck murder?” Charlie asked, waving his brother toward their small office. “The APD detective assigned to today's incident was concerned about jurisdictional issues.”

“Yeah, there are several agencies involved in all this. When the silversmith's name came up as the maker of the jewelry connected to this crime, I caught wind of it,” Al explained.

“So the necklace was taken when Buck was killed over by the tribal casino?” Gordon asked, taking a seat in one of the four chairs.

“No, and here's where it gets creepy. When I got a look at the photo of the necklace you'd sent to APD on a stolen property query, I realized it matched another image I'd seen from the dead man's own records. Mind if I have a look at the jewelry?” Al asked.

Charlie nodded to Gordon, who reached for a big manila envelope atop the in-basket of the double desk. “Detective DuPree also took a look, considering it was what the wannabe robbers had come for.”

Al opened the envelope, then brought out the airtight plastic zip-lock bag that contained the turquoise and silver necklace. It was a classic Southwest design—with Cordell's custom look and personal mark stamped into the silver. Most silver jewelry of this type was kept in air- and moisture-sealed containers to reduce oxidation, often with a packet of silica gel.

He looked at it closely, not opening the bag, then brought a photo out of his shirt pocket and checked it as well. “This is the one. The spider matrix of the turquoise is a perfect match on every stone.”

“So is this squash blossom creepy 'cause it belonged to a guy who's dead now?” Gordon asked.

Al shook his head. “No, and this is the detail that never made the news. This particular piece of jewelry was one of the dead man's favorite works. He didn't have it with him when he was killed—he had it on him when he was buried.”

Charlie looked over at Gordon, who whistled softly. “We're talking grave robbing here, brother?”

Al nodded. “About the worst thing a Navajo can do,” he answered softly.

*   *   *

It was close to ten at night when the three of them arrived at the remote graveyard on a section of the Eastern Navajo Nation twenty miles west of Albuquerque and south of the To'hajiilee Chapter House.

Charlie was driving his dark-purple Charger, his most valued possession, while Gordon and Al chatted mostly about his and Charlie's years growing up in Shiprock. As usual, most of the stories were about when Al had bested Charlie at baseball, basketball, or football. The fact that Al was bigger, stronger, and older never seemed to come up, Charlie observed, but he joined in with the laughter.

As he drove, Charlie stayed out of the conversation, recalling his and Al's more recent history. The last time he and Al had been together for more than an hour they'd almost come to blows. Al had just been demoted from sergeant down to patrol officer. He'd been suspended for drinking and was having family problems. Al's wife, Nedra, had been forced to go back to work as an office temp and Al was becoming borderline abusive. Even their two boys were avoiding him at home.

Charlie had tried to talk some sense into Al, but his efforts had backfired. Charlie walked away after that and they'd rarely spoken since. Now Al was acting like nothing had ever happened, and Charlie wondered if his brother was finally coming out of his downward slide.

Suddenly Gordon said something that brought Charlie back into the present.

“So, are we checking for evidence that this grave robbing was the work of thieves, not skin … you-know-whats?” Gordon said, avoiding the mention of “skinwalkers,” Navajo witches.

He'd learned a lot from Charlie over the years about things like this. Mentioning skinwalkers—real people who were either evil or crazy—was said to attract them. Having grown up in a poor neighborhood in Denver, Gordon was highly respectful around other cultures—that was, unless they disrespected him. In those situations, he showed no mercy whatsoever.

“From what I've gathered, gossip mostly, the locals out here think the dead silversmith was robbed by the evil ones,” Al said softly. “Personal items belonging to the dead are valuable to the Navajo witches. But I want to take a look myself. I checked with a
hataalii,
a medicine man, and he says it was more likely a greedy Anglo. But he wouldn't say why. It turns out that at least one of the men who came looking for that squash blossom at your shop is linked to a group of carjackers. Some smart-ass cop calls them the Alone Arrangers. I had to look for myself.”

“Wait until the TV stations hear that name.”

Al continued. “Which is why officers actually involved in the investigation have renamed them the Night Crew. They've been carjacking individuals mostly in the Four Corners area, targeting people caught out alone after dark driving newer model SUVs and such. They rough up and rob their victims, then leave them along the highway. I've been trying to worm my way into that gang ever since I was assigned to track down Buck's killer. The man who died in your shop today—I had some beers with him two days ago.”

“Think the guy we shot was the one who actually robbed and killed the silversmith?” Charlie asked as they climbed out of the Charger.

“Or he knew who did. Before the man buried here was killed, the Night Crew just carried out strong-arm robberies and carjackings, never inflicting serious injuries on their victims. But after they murdered a prominent silversmith, they got everyone's attention, including the tribal president. I'm now working with APD, two county sheriff's departments, and my own tribal unit on this investigation. My focus is on the killer, but putting a stop to the carjackings would be a real bonus. I can't wait to bring these animals in,” Al added.

They walked over to the run-down fence that bordered the graveyard and took a look around. The cemetery wasn't much—basically desert, wild grasses, tumbleweeds, sagebrush, sand, and a dozen or more aluminum markers enclosing paper notices under glass with the names of the deceased. A few also had wooden crosses—these were Navajo Christians—but mostly the place looked abandoned.

“Think we can use a flashlight,” Gordon suggested, bringing out a small LED light that emitted a bright, narrow beam.

“Don't wave it around too much, Gordon,” Al warned. “We're not supposed to be here, I'm not supposed to be a cop, and graveyards make most Navajos nervous.”

“Especially those where bodies have been dug up. I see some mounded dirt to our left, up the fence line. Didn't the smith get reburied?” Charlie asked.

“Don't really know,” Al replied. “Nobody really wanted to talk to the tribal officers about it and I'm not in a position to go asking. Not if I want to remain undercover. Let's look around. There's an opening in the fence just to your right.”

“Besides graves, anything I should be on the lookout for?” Gordon asked. “If this wasn't an ordinary crime, I mean?”

Charlie knew what he meant. “Markings on the ground with charcoal, mutilated animals, stuff like that.”

“Twisted, perverted stuff,” Al added. “Who knows?”

A minute later they approached the mounded dirt. “The grave is still open,” Gordon whispered, bringing out his flashlight. “Oh shit.”

Charlie looked down. “I thought you said they just robbed the grave. This guy was fried to a crisp.”

The three of them stood beside the hole in the ground, staring down at the burned remains of a wooden casket. The smell was pungent and all too familiar to Charlie.

“Put your hands in the air!” a woman ordered from somewhere behind them. “I'm a police officer.”

 

Chapter Three

“
Yáa
ééh,
Officer,” Charlie greeted, putting his hands in the air, as did Al and Gordon. “We're just looking around. We heard about the grave robbing of the silversmith. And we're not armed except for a couple of pocketknives,” he added, hoping that Al wasn't strapped while working undercover.