Spider Woman's Daughter (10 page)

“It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.

“One of our treasures,” Marjorie said. She punched in a code to open the door. “Come again, anytime. Stay as long as you wish.”

A
s Bernie steered her Toyota along Santa Fe’s curving downtown streets and ultimately south toward the freeway and home, she realized that the genius of Hosteen Klah had moved her thoughts away from sadness and frustration to the more beautiful space of dreams and the spirit. For the first time since the shooting, she felt light, relaxed. It was good to be in that quiet place.

She stayed in the right lane as she cruised down La Bajada, past the exit for Cochiti Pueblo and the sculptural Tent Rocks, now known as Kasha-Katuwe National Monument. She didn’t see any of those black-and-white New Mexico State Police cars or other law enforcement from the numerous county and Pueblo Indian jurisdictions that I-25 crossed as it headed south. She pushed the Tercel to 80, eager to get home.

Bernie turned west toward the Rio Grande at the Bernalillo exit, crossing the edge of what was once a tiny town, now fleshed out with a growing assembly of fast food restaurants and chain motels. She climbed toward San Isidro, Cuba, and Jemez Pueblo. The engine struggled a bit with the change in elevation as she entered the tall trees and open spaces of the Jicarilla Apache reservation.

She thought about John Collingsworth. Was he the arrogant know-it-all she’d decided at first impression? Or a bright, conscientious, decent guy, the sort of client the lieutenant would have enjoyed working with because they both wanted the job done right? Surely the lieutenant had finished the report by the deadline and mailed it as promised.

She used her cell phone to call Officer Bigman at the Window Rock office and ask a favor. “Swing by the lieutenant’s house on your way home and take a look in the truck for me, would you? I may have left an envelope in there that Leaphorn planned to mail.”

“What kind of envelope?”

“Addressed to John Collingsworth at the AIRC in Santa Fe.”

“I’ll be glad to look,” he said. “Want me to mail it?”

“No. Hold on to it for me.”

Bernie phoned Chee and told him the two of them were now authorized Leaphorn relatives and a bit about the hospital. She mentioned the AIRC, the missing envelope, and then, in more detail, the Hosteen Klah rug. Thinking of it gave her goose bumps.

“So how was your day?” she asked. “What’s happening with the Benally car and the prints? Have Jackson or Nez shown up?”

“Nope. The grandma Nez lives with says he disappears for days at a time. She’s sweet, but not quite all there, if you know what I mean. The feds haven’t found Louisa. She wasn’t at the motel she gave us. And not on any flights to Houston. Not answering her phone. They didn’t find her Jeep in the airport garage or at any of those park-and-shuttle places.”

She heard him sigh into the receiver.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

She told him she was about halfway to the turnoff for Chaco Canyon.

“I hope you’re in the mood for ice cream,” he said.

“Ice cream?”

“I found one of those little freezers at the flea market on my way home from work. Still in the box. Never used as far as I can tell. Three dollars!”

“Did it come with recipes?”

“Recipes? My dear, I don’t need a recipe. I am the Sherlock Holmes of cooking.”

Bernie laughed. “Did Sherlock cook?”

“He cooked for Dr. Watson. Didn’t you learn that in college?”

“I must have missed that class,” she said. “I didn’t realize the English were known for their cuisine. Is making ice cream cooking?”

Chee probably said something in response, but all she heard were three quick beeps and silence. Welcome to the beautiful, empty Southwest.

Bernie watched the sun set against Angel Peak, cruised through Farmington traffic without mishap, and finally saw Ship Rock, her favorite landmark, rise along the horizon.

8

S
he was tired and hungry when she pulled into the driveway. The thought of Chee experimenting with his new ice cream machine made her smile. But as she walked past her loom toward the front door, she heard an unsettling sound, the plaintive cry of a creature undergoing torture.

Chee greeted her with a kiss. “Guess what, honey?” He didn’t give her time to ask,
What?
“Bigman went to Leaphorn’s to look for that envelope, and the cat was back! Waiting at the door. He had his wife bring it by. It looks fine, as far as cats go. No harm done from its escapade.”

“Why is it making that awful noise?

“Maybe it ate something bad out there.” Chee looked puzzled. “A bellyache.”

“You had a cat,” she said. “You know more about them than I do.”

“You remember that?”

“You told me how you sent a cat back east to a girlfriend of yours because you didn’t think it was a survivor.”

“This one is a Navajo cat,” Chee said. “That’s another reason it’s making so much noise. It wants to go out and hunt up its dinner. But if we put it outside, it will probably try to run back to Window Rock.”

She laughed. “Well, at least let it out of the bathroom.”

Chee opened the door.

The cat looked at him from its seat on the bath mat. It gave a final yowl, then started licking its right front paw.

Chee smiled. “I guess we have a cat now, until we get this sorted out.”

“At least you got it to be quiet,” Bernie said.

“Thanks,” he said. “It was your idea.”

Chee went back to finishing dinner while Bernie changed out of her uniform into shorts and a T-shirt. She walked out on the deck, enjoying the evening’s symphony of crickets and the comforting sound of the nearby San Juan River. She thought about the lieutenant, listening to the buzz of machines that were keeping him alive.

After dinner Chee said, “I’m surprised you haven’t asked about the envelope.”

“I was waiting for you to bring out the ice cream,” she said. “I thought we’d talk business after pleasure.”

“I didn’t have enough cream to make it. Because of the cat. Sorry.”

“It must have been starved. I still have food for it in my car.”

The cat was watching them from the sofa. “That one has been quiet ever since you got here. I think it likes you. Or it knew where you’d hidden its food,” Chee said.

“It’s a she,” Bernie said. “And I think she just likes being out of the bathroom.”

She smiled at him. “So, did Bigman find anything?”

Chee gave the cat a pat on the head. “No luck. He looked in the truck and then in the house. All the logical places, then the illogical ones. But after what you told me about your interview in Santa Fe, I had an idea.”

Leaphorn’s computer was at the Window Rock station in case they needed it for evidence. Chee had asked the technician to search the hard drive for files labeled “Indian art report,” “final report,” “McManus,” “AIRC,” or the equivalent, with a date within the last month. If he found anything, it would be e-mailed to Chee.

Bernie said, “And people think I married you just for your good looks.”

“My one stroke of brilliance today,” he said.

She moved to the couch. “What did the background check on Jackson come up with?”

Chee settled in beside her. “Nothing. No record, not even a traffic ticket. Same as with his mother. Mrs. Benally won a big award from the tribal government back when Joe Shirley Jr. was president.”

“What else happened today?”

“Mrs. Benally has assigned herself to our investigation. She’s looking for a ninja. And I found Jackson.”

“You found Benally? That’s huge. And you’re just telling me now? You better start at the beginning.”

W
hen he got to the Shiprock substation that morning, Chee had a message to report immediately to Window Rock police headquarters and to radio Largo once he was on the way.

“Mrs. Benally showed up here.” Largo sounded more out of sorts than usual. “She’s furious that she can’t get her car back. Said she had something important to tell us, but she won’t until we give her the car. She demanded to talk to Bernie, but finally agreed to talk to you. Only you. She’s as stubborn as, as . . . well, you know. Stubborn.”

Chee agreed.

“See if you can calm her down, explain the car situation to her again. I figure she knows something about Jackson’s whereabouts. Maybe she’ll tell you where he is or where he could be, where he goes when he doesn’t come home. You can talk to her about all that when you give her a ride home.”

“Me? I have to go all the way to Window Rock to give a grouchy old lady a ride?”

“You,” Largo said. “You’re in charge of the Navajo side of this case, remember? If Bernie wasn’t on leave, she could do it and probably get enough information from Mrs. Benally to record her family history.”

Chee said, “Yes, sir. On my way.”

He appreciated the air-conditioning in his patrol car as he sailed past the volcanic buttes that rose like ruins in the dusty landscape on both sides of the paved four-lane US 491. He recalled when this route had been US 666, nicknamed the Devil’s Highway, and the controversy that came with the decision to rename it to reduce talk of the highway’s curse and theft of the 666 signs. This had been one of the deadliest roads in New Mexico, marked with the carnage of traffic accidents. Widening the road and adding better shoulders and rumble strips to jar awake sleepy drivers made it safer. Chee bypassed the scenic turnoffs and stuck to the four-lane, turning west on NM 264 at Yah-Ta-Hey and cruising into the Navajo Police headquarters parking lot in a little under two hours.

Mrs. Benally’s mood had not mellowed with time. Chee explained again the evidence review process, how the crime scene technicians had to search her car for hair, skin fragments, other clues to help them find the one who shot Leaphorn. He called the crime lab to learn when the car could be released, got a vague bureaucratic response. He praised her generosity and the importance of her help with such a crime. Then he offered to drive her home.

“What about the Fudgsicles?”

“I don’t know about any Fudgsicles,” he said.

“The other officer. Not the lady. He promised to buy me some after he let mine get all melted.”

“Hmmm,” Chee said. “He’s not here today. What about some coffee?”

He brought her a cup of strong, stale coffee from the police break room with plenty of sugar.

“Okeydokey, then,” she said. “Let’s go. This time, I sit in the front seat.”

Chee drove her past Bashas’, past the sprawling Navajo Nation fairgrounds, down a dirt road to her place. Mrs. Benally gave Chee directions, more than he needed.

“Do you know who shot the policeman?” she asked.

“We’re working on it. We’ll use the evidence from your car to help with that.”

“Probably a white man,” Mrs. Benally said.

“How would a white man get your car?”

“Same as an Indian.”

“Why do you think a
bilagaana
would steal your car?”

“He didn’t steal it.” She gave Chee a disgusted look. “He borrowed it.”

Chee said, “We don’t know if the person driving was a man or a woman, a Navajo or not. Bernie—the policewoman you met—she could only verify that whoever did it was short, wearing dark clothes.”

“Like one of those ninjas in the movies. Okay, then,” Mrs. Benally said. “A little blue-eyed ninja. Or Japanese. Not my Jackson.”

“Where does Jackson go when he doesn’t come home?” Chee asked.

“He comes home,” she said.

“What about yesterday?”

Mrs. Benally stared straight ahead. Finally she said, “Jackson has a good heart. We don’t worry.”

Chee pulled up in front of the house and parked, noticing that Mrs. Benally’s front door stood open. When they reached the front porch, Chee saw a slender young man in jeans and a white muscle shirt. An unzipped pack was next to him with some thick, serious-looking books spread out on the table. A video game beeped and flashed from the TV monitor.

“Mom!” he said. “Holy catfish! What happened to you? Where’s the car?”

“Officer Chee gave me a ride home because the police have taken our car,” Mrs. Benally said.

“Whoa! What did you do?”

Jackson stood close to six-foot-two in his cowboy boots, Chee figured. “Whatever trouble Mom is in, she wouldn’t ever do anybody harm,” Jackson said. “She might lose it once in a while, get carried away, but I never thought she’d be arrested.”

“I’m not arrested, because I’m not the evil ninja.”

Jackson looked confused.

Chee said, “Are you Jackson Benally?”

“Right.”

“You have to come back to the police station with me.”

“What? No way. You’re kidding me.”

Mrs. Benally said, “Son, this is because of that man with the funny name, the elderly who got hurt yesterday. Some Japanese person borrowed our car to shoot him. They made my fingerprints, and now they need yours. Like on TV. I’ll go with you to make sure they treat you good. ”

“Crazy,” Jackson said. “No joke? A ninja dude used our car in a shooting? You’re kidding me.”

Chee looked at Jackson. “The case is under investigation. I can’t talk about it. How old are you?”

“Almost twenty.”

Chee looked at Mrs. Benally. “You’ll have to stay here while I take Jackson in. He’s legally an adult. Besides the fingerprints, we need to ask him some questions.”

“Me? Why me? I had nothing to do with this,” he said. “I was in class yesterday.” Jackson held up his hands, palms forward. Chee noticed a flash of gold on his wrist. A watchband.

Chee said, “You were the last person we know of to drive the car. Let’s go.”

Jackson blanched. Chee noticed that he avoided looking at his mother.

Mrs. Benally put her hand on Jackson’s arm. “You tell the policeman everything about yesterday so we get the car back. I’ll see if I can find the ninja.” Then she looked at Chee. “I’ll call you when I have the clues. Bring Jackson back soon. And then tell that other policeman I need my Fudgsicles.”

Chee put Jackson in the backseat of the patrol car and radioed Largo. For good measure, he told Jackson his rights. If anyone screwed up in this case, it wouldn’t be him.

At the station, Largo explained that the interview would be taped, that Jackson was entitled to a lawyer if he wanted one.

“I don’t need a lawyer,” Jackson said. “I’ve got nothing to say about the ninja.”

Largo looked at Chee. Raised an eyebrow.

“Long story,” Chee said.

The interview room was furnished with a table and two straight-backed metal chairs. Jackson sat facing the one-way mirror where Largo would be observing. Chee, his back to the mirror, began to ask questions, starting with name, age, and address for the record. The boy was nervous, but no more agitated than Chee would expect for an average young man being interrogated in a police station.

“Jackson, where were you yesterday morning?”

“I was at school, University of New Mexico, Gallup campus. I, I don’t know the exact address.”

Chee smiled at Jackson. “If you tell me the truth here, it will help us solve the crime. Help us get the car back to your mom.”

“You got it.”

“So let’s start over.” Chee looked at his notes, letting the silence spread over the room. “So, where were you yesterday at ten a.m.? Where were you really?”

“In class. I’ve got my schedule in my computer at home if you wanna see it.”

“The Gallup Police checked with the registrar, found your class schedule. They talked to the instructor for that class. He said you hadn’t shown up.”

Jackson shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t remember.”

“The Gallup Police looked for you all over campus.” Chee sighed. “You could be facing some serious charges. If you don’t tell me the truth, you’ll end up in jail. I don’t intend to warn you again.”

Jackson stared at his fingernails. Chee noticed that the top of his right sneaker moved up and down. Twitching toes, a poor liar getting nervous.

“Do you know a man named Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn?”

Jackson looked up. The twitching stopped. “No, sir. Never heard of him. I swear.”

Chee decided he was telling the truth.

“Did you shoot a man in the parking lot of the Navajo Inn?”

Jackson sat straighter, seemed to come to life. “No way, dude. I don’t even have a gun.”

“Can you tell me why your car was identified by a police officer as the vehicle the person who shot Lieutenant Leaphorn was driving?”

“No. I’m clueless.” Jackson shook his head. “It’s Mom’s car. She just lets me drive it. Last time I saw it was when I left it for her at Bashas’, like I always do when my friend takes me to school. Are you sure it was our car?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Chee said. “What time did you leave the car at Bashas’?”

“It was eight in the morning. Around then, more or less.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Leonard Nez.”

“How can I reach him?” Chee said.

Jackson looked at his nails again. “I’m not sure.”

“Think about that question again. See if you can remember his phone number, where he lives.”

“He lives with his grandma,” Jackson said. “Somewhere around here. I’ve never been to his house. We just meet at Bashas’.”