Black Thunder (24 page)

“Are you thinking of using this to pull the pickup off the car? If so, we’re going to need that,” she said, pointing to the cable and hook wrapped around a bracket
on the side of the backhoe.

The Navajo man looked down at her, still shouting to be heard over the roar of the backhoe. “No towing. Too much gasoline’s spilled. Yanking the pickup off the car might create sparks. Maybe I can lift it up just enough to free the driver.”

“You could still get sparks if there’s any slippage,” Ella yelled back.

He looked back over at the construction site. “Maybe
we can insulate the scoop with that tarp.” He pointed.

“I’ll get it.” Ella raced over to the trailer, which had been used to transport the backhoe to the off-road site. The big cloth was made of rubber or vinyl-coated canvas and weighed a lot more than she’d expected. She picked it up, then raced back as fast as she could manage carrying an extra fifty pounds.

With the help of the pickup driver,
Ella unfolded the big cover and placed it, three and four layers thick, over the scoop at the front of the backhoe.

Standing close, her boots in gasoline now, Ella directed the man at the backhoe controls, motioning and pointing as he placed the big scoop just below the pickup’s front axle.

The backhoe drooped in front as it took on the load, but the volunteer operator manipulated the controls
and extended the digging arm at the rear, shifting back the center of gravity. The tactic worked. With a creak, the scoop began to raise the front end of the pickup a few inches at a time. Once it cleared the car by about a foot, the man stopped the motion and held everything in place.

Ella reached in through what was left of the windshield and pulled away the deflated air bag, freeing the obstruction
so the pickup driver could reach the victim. With Ella directing, the driver grasped the injured woman below the arms. Then he lifted her up and out as Ella steered her hips and legs through the mass of jagged glass and metal. The woman was unconscious, but Ella could see she was breathing—a good sign.

As they moved her away from the wreckage, Ella heard the creak of straining metal and looked
back at the man working the controls of the backhoe.

“Hurry,” he yelled.

Once the woman was taken to dry ground and placed on a blanket, Ella hurried back to the wreck.

“Okay, ease it back down,” she called out to the man on the backhoe. In the distance, she could hear horn blasts and sirens.

The Navajo man in the suit eased the pickup down again, backed the machine a hundred feet off the
highway, then turned off the engine. As he jumped down, a fire truck pulled up beside the construction vehicle. Within seconds, firemen were emptying bags of ground corncob sorbent on the gasoline, soaking it up and stopping the flow.

Ella walked over to the accident victim but, by then, paramedics were busy working on her. A police cruiser soon pulled up and Ella, greeting the officer, turned
the scene over to him.

As she joined Justine at the SUV, Ella looked around for the man who’d driven the backhoe, intending to thank him, but he was nowhere in sight.

“The patrol officer can take care of things here. Let’s go pay the Stepson office a visit,” Ella said.

Ten minutes later, after being forced to take a circular route to get around the clogged intersection, Ella and Justine walked
into the offices of Stepson, Inc. “I’m looking for Joe Preston,” Ella said, showing her badge to the young, attractive, Navajo receptionist behind the desk.

“Mr. Preston’s in a meeting right now, Investigator Clah. Would you like to wait? He should be available soon,” she said, motioning toward several chairs across the room.

“Thanks,” Ella said, she and Justine choosing seats where they could
watch the front entrance and still see the closed office door behind the assistant’s desk. Years ago, while an FBI agent, Ella had picked up the habit of never having her back to a door, and Justine had quickly followed suit.

A few minutes later, the same Navajo man who’d operated the backhoe came out of the office, followed by a tall Anglo man wearing a tan shirt and a gaudy turquoise and silver
tie.

“If there’s a problem with what you’ve told me, I’ll be back here tomorrow morning first thing.”

“There won’t be,” the Anglo answered.

Seeing Ella, the Navajo man gave her a nod, then walked out before she could speak. There was no time to go after him, but before she left here today, someone would tell her who he was. He deserved an official thanks from the department.

The Anglo man
exchanged a few quick words with his assistant, then turned to Ella. “Investigator Clah, I’m Joe Preston,” he greeted, not offering to shake hands. “Must be my day to be investigated.”

“Say again?”

“First, Investigator Bitterwater, now two tribal police officers.”

Ella forced herself not to react. She had a lot of questions for Bitterwater once they officially met, including his reason for
being here—today.

Focusing on the present, Ella introduced Justine, then said, “We’re investigating the death of a state mine inspector, Chester Kelewood.”

“Let’s go into my office and we can talk there,” Preston said, nodding to Justine.

Once they were inside the cool, spacious office, he closed the door behind them and walked to his desk. “Have a seat, officers. I’m afraid I know very little
about Mr. Kelewood. All I can tell you is that he conducted periodic inspections of our equipment. I’d accompany him on those visits as a courtesy whenever I could. About a year ago, just before a scheduled inspection, he went missing.”

“He’s been found—murdered,” Ella said.

“That’s a shame. I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Tell me more about that safety problem Mr. Kelewood
was investigating. I understood there was some controversy involved.”

“It was a mistake, that’s all. Mr. Kelewood got the idea from badly worded maintenance paperwork that some of our ore haulers and draglines didn’t meet the minimum safety requirements. He was supposed to come back with his crew to check further, but he never showed up. The state then sent in another inspector and team and they
confirmed that all of our vehicles and equipment met or exceeded industry standards.”

“Yes, but there was a delay of more than a week before that second inspection. Some say that delay gave Stepson time to correct the problems and avoid a monumental fine,” Ella said, watching his reaction.

“If you’re suggesting that we had something to do with that man’s death, you’re way off base. Should I
call our attorneys?”

“No need, Mr. Preston. It’s a question that needed to be raised, and you’ve answered it,” Ella said. “Did Mr. Kelewood have any enemies that you know about, maybe a Stepson employee who felt threatened by the inspections?”

“I can’t think of anyone in particular. Our employees support what the safety inspectors do. Their lives are on the line every day and they want to feel
safe.”

Ella and Justine left the office, then walked down the long sidewalk toward the street-side parking lot. “We need to talk to Bitterwater. I want to know who or what he’s investigating, and if it’s connected to Kelewood.”

“He must have an office somewhere. So how do we find him?” Justine said, thinking out loud.

“You might try looking behind you,” a man answered. “I was wondering if I’d
be seeing you again, soon. Investigator Clah, isn’t it? Do you want to talk out here, or do you prefer someplace away from Stepson’s people?”

Ella turned around, surprised by how quietly Bitterwater had moved. “Away from here would be better. Do you have a suggestion, Investigator?”

“How about the Totah Café, officers? I’m hungry.”

“We’ll follow you there,” Ella said.

The Totah, down in the
valley beside the main highway, was less than five minutes from their location. On the way, Ella called Big Ed and gave him the morning’s highlights. “Is there anything you can tell me about Logan Bitterwater?”

“I tried to look him up at one time, but his records, at the request of the tribal president, are sealed. So I did things the old way—asking around. I found out that he’s from the Arizona
side of the Rez. He’s a New Traditionalist, and served in the Army but his work there was classified. In the tribal president’s office he’s known as
Naalzheehí
, The Hunter.”

They arrived at the Totah Café shortly afterwards. It was a bit past one and the decades-old restaurant—the most popular sit-down eatery in the community—was bustling with activity.

As they walked inside Justine slowed down
and spoke into Ella’s ear. “You might get more from him one to one. I can have lunch at the counter.”

Ella considered it, then nodded.

Logan, already inside, stood as Ella approached the small table he’d chosen, well in the back and by the kitchen.

“There’s room for your partner,” Logan said, gesturing to the third chair.

“Officer Goodluck has a friend working behind the counter,” Ella said,
telling the truth but avoiding the issue. “I’m Ella Clah, as you’ve already guessed. Do you know why I wanted to talk to you?”

“I assume you’re investigating Kelewood’s murder.”

Ella noted that he knew the ID had been made. “You’ve accessed our files?”

“The nature of my job gives me the necessary clearance.”

“So I assume you’re looking into his death, too?”

As the waitress came over, they
turned their attention to their menus. Ella ordered a stuffed sopaipilla, her favorite fare here. He ordered their Wild West burger, a new addition with enough hot green chile to melt an iceberg.

Once the waitress left, he leaned back and answered. “The murder is police business. I’m interested in Stepson’s operations. I want to make sure they’re not cutting corners and endangering lives.”

“Is there anything you can tell me? I’d be particularly interested in anything that might tie in with Kelewood’s murder.”

“I can’t tell you if Kelewood’s disappearance is linked to Stepson or not. I’ve just started my investigation. Rumors that the company’s cutting corners have persisted, and with word of Kelewood’s murder reaching my boss’s desk, I’ve been ordered to find out if there’s any
truth to the stories.”

Ella realized that the tribal president was trying to protect his own political career as well as the tribe’s reputation. “Have you heard anything that might suggest Stepson tried to pay off Kelewood or pressure him into calling off or delaying his inspection?”

“Not a thing, but as I said, I’ve just begun, and have only read a few files so far. But if that turns out to
be the case, I’d put my money on Preston. His head would have been the first one on the chopping block at corporate.”

“If you come up with anything, will you let us know?”

He remained quiet for a beat. “I’m not a cop, nor do I work in a way the department would necessarily sanction,” he said at last. “My job is to get answers for the tribal president, particularly in matters that threaten our
tribe. Before I can share information with anyone outside his office, I’ll need his permission.”

“All right, but let me know either way.”

“You got it.”

*   *   *

Ella had just taken her last bite when Justine hurried over. “We just got a ten–twenty-nine call. Time to roll.”

Ella reached for her wallet, but Bitterwater shook his head. “Go, you can get it next time.”

“Thanks.”

Ella hurried
out with Justine, wondering which fugitive had been spotted. “Who’s the suspect?”

“One of Emily Marquez’s informants reported seeing someone they believe to be Gilbert Romero over at the C.O. Jones bar and grill in Kirtland.”

The mention of the name of the bar made Ella’s stomach sink—she’d had a bad experience there—but before she could reply, Emily contacted them on the State car-to-car channel.
“It’s Romero, all right. I just got a cell phone photo from my informant. Romero and Bowman were leaving the place at the time. They’re now heading south toward the old highway. They’re in a dirty white Ford pickup with New Mexico plates.”

“Ten-four. We’ve got it on this end,” Ella said, ending the call. “That white Ford matches earlier reports.”

Switching frequencies, she coordinated other
units to cover the secondary roads leading in and out of Shiprock.

Justine gave Ella a mirthless half smile. “We’ve got them now.”

Ella said nothing. She’d learned the hard way never to count on anything. There were few sure things in police work.

NINETEEN

There were two paved roads leading into Shiprock, but the southern route was roundabout and less traveled and could be covered by the same unit watching the Gallup highway. All things considered, the road Justine and she were on seemed the more likely choice.

“We’ve got two options,” Justine said. “We can pull over by the westbound lane and pick up Bowman and Romero as they pass, or
stay eastbound and wait for them to approach from that direction.”

“Continue east,” Ella said.

As they kept watch, Ella quickly briefed Justine on the conversation with Bitterwater. They both agreed that the man’s loyalty to the tribal president might get in the way of any help he could provide. On the plus side, Bitterwater had access where they didn’t, and he represented an extra set of eyes
out there that might stumble across the killer’s identity. Hopefully, he would share.

Soon a white Ford pickup passed them, its only visible occupant, the driver. It was followed only a few seconds later by a cream-colored truck, also a Ford, with at least two people in the cab.

Justine slowed, approaching the next pass-over on the median. “Which one do we target, the first truck or the second?”
she asked.

Ella quickly contacted Sergeant Marquez. “Are you sure the pickup was white and not cream?”

“It was white—an older-model Ford with a damaged tailgate. It has to be on Navajo land by now.”

“Ten-four.” Ella glanced at Justine. “It’s the first truck. Catch up to him. They must have been watching for patrol units and the passenger ducked down as they went past us.”

“Should I go silent?”
Justine asked, crossing the median and taking advantage of a gap in traffic to enter into the flow quickly.