Mourning Dove (5 page)

With that, Rose hung up.

Ella slammed the phone down, then, remembering she wasn’t
alone, looked sheepishly at Justine. “Mothers. With one hand you want to hug them close, and with another you’d cheerfully push them into the river.”

Justine smiled. “Do you need to duck out this afternoon for a while? I can cover for you.”

“No. I know you can handle things, but as head of this unit this is where I have to be right now. Dawn will understand that, even if my mother never will,”
Ella said, then taking a deep breath, gave her assistant a nod. “So what have you got for me?”

Justine glanced down at her notes. “As you know, we’ve got two blood types at the scene. One belongs to the victim. The other to someone else—one of the perps, or maybe Blacksheep had a companion—though the tracks and blood trails don’t seem to fit in with that possibility. I did some checking and he
rented a big two-door sedan in El Paso at a branch of Nationwide. The agent said Blacksheep was traveling alone—at least when he picked up the car.”

“A sedan, not a pickup? That’s interesting, considering that the carjacking ring has focused exclusively on pickups—and a flatbed or two.”

“I’ve also got a list of local Guard soldiers who served in the victim’s unit. There are eight of them, all
male. The Navajos are Randy Billey, John Lee Charley, Jeremy Bitsillie, and Paul Curley. Jeremy’s on our tribal force and the others work at various repair shops around Shiprock. Out of the Anglos, Calvin Sanders, Kent Miller, and Louis Smith are all FPD officers, and Ben Richardson is a mechanic in the PD’s auto shop.”

As her phone began to ring, Ella held up one hand. She half expected it to
be Rose again. Her mother—who’d never worked
outside the home when her own children had been at home—hadn’t experienced the fine line every working mother had to walk.

On an intellectual level, Rose realized that Ella had to work to support Dawn, and that her law enforcement career was more demanding than a nine-to-five job. But emotionally, Rose expected her to be all things to everyone.

Ella
picked up the phone and identified herself.

“This is Sergeant Calvin Sanders of the Farmington Police Department,” came the voice at the other end. “I’d like to meet with you concerning the death of Jimmy Blacksheep. I’m on the carjacking investigative force, and I knew Jimmy. He served in my platoon. I’m—was—his lieutenant in the Army National Guard.”

“Okay. Where do you want to meet—and when?”
Ella asked.

“How about the Dry Hole? It’s on Main here in Farmington, west of downtown.”

“I’ve heard of it. How’s forty-five minutes sound to you?”

“Good. It’s a rough place, but I’ve got a good reason for wanting to meet there. I’ll fill you in later.”

Ella hung up and glanced at Justine. “I’ve stalled for time, so please find out what you can—off the record—about FPD Sergeant Calvin Sanders.
And go easy. I just want some general information before meeting with him.”

While Ella went over the physical evidence she already had from the scene, Justine left to get some background on Sanders. She returned ten minutes later. “Sergeant Sanders has served with the Farmington PD for eleven years. He’s currently working days. He’s not well-liked, based on what my source said, but he gets the
job done. Sanders has served in the National Guard for the last six years, and was letting his enlistment expire when they extended his service another eighteen months.”

Justine reached into the file folder she had in her hands. “Here’s a photo. I printed it out from his records on the database. You want me to come with you?”

Ella glanced down to familiarize herself with the face, then
shook
her head. “Someone in law enforcement is always difficult to Q and A. I’ll get more from him one-to-one.” Ella started out the door, then glanced back at Justine. “Keep digging on everything you can about the victim. Anything on a weapon?”

“Nothing, not even a caliber on the perps’ bullets yet either. Joe’s going over the area one more time with a metal detector. He said that with the wind kicking
up there was no telling what he’d find.”

“Let me know if he manages to find something besides beer and soda cans,” Ella said and stepped out the side door.

Ella reached the outskirts of Farmington twenty minutes later, and, coming in from the west, quickly found the Dry Hole. She’d heard about the tavern from other officers on the tribal PD. There was a huge TV over the bar, and half the time
the games on screen led to fights below. The oil workers and gas workers in the county often met head-on with local cowboys and, more often than not, it became a free-for-all. She’d also heard that a few tribal officers had been arrested there—then released.

The Dry Hole was a testosterone den where the fights were real but the motivations vague. Like an elementary school playground, many egos
went there to be tested, but it was a good training site for young officers needing to learn how to handle themselves in a hostile environment.

Fortunately, it was barely lunch time, so the mood inside would be far different than after the off-duty day shift drifted in around six. Not seeing anyone hanging around in the parking lot, she assumed her contact had already gone inside. Ella pushed
her badge back on her belt and made sure it remained covered by her jacket. She wanted to stay low key. Just being female in this place was rumored to be a test of courage.

As she stepped inside the bar and grill, she stopped just past the door and stood, waiting for her eyes to adjust. There were no windows, which probably cut down on breakage considerably, and the lights were dim but probably
legal. Then she saw Calvin
Sanders sitting at the bar, a cup of what looked like coffee in front of him.

He was out of uniform, but she recognized him instantly from the photo—buzz cut, tanned, and blue eyed. Sanders waved her over, having ostensibly checked out her photo as well. “Investigator Clah,” he greeted. He started to hold out his hand, but then let it drop. “Sorry, been out of the country
for too long. Forgot you people don’t like to shake hands.”

Ella nodded, not appreciating the “you people” comment that much, but having heard much worse in bars before. “No problem.”

He grabbed his coffee and led the way to a table at the rear that offered a clear view of the room, then offered her some coffee from the pot the waitress had carried over. “Let me buy you a sandwich to go with
it.”

Ella shook her head. She’d planned to have lunch a little later with Carolyn. Though the morgue was scarcely the ideal setting, by the time she got there Carolyn would undoubtedly be needing a break, and they could both use downtime, though the topic would probably be the victim in the other room.

“Coffee’s just fine,” she said. “Now tell me why you chose this particular place,” Ella said,
looking around and noting gratefully that all was quiet. Even the sports program on TV was from some horse track in Florida.

“I was hoping to track down one of my men. He served in the Guard and was Jimmy Blacksheep’s sergeant. He knew everyone in that section inside and out. Ever since I got the news about Jimmy, I’ve been trying to reach him, but I haven’t had any luck.”

“He hangs out here?”

“Yeah. It’s his favorite joint. He likes mixing it up every once in a while.”

“Is he Navajo?” Ella asked.

“No. His name is Kent Miller, and he’s one of our patrol officers. He’s a good cop, clean as they come, but he had some hairy experiences these past few months and mentioned needing to
clear his head before reporting to work at the PD. I figure he’s at the secret fishing spot he was always
talking about over in Iraq. But once he’s back in town, this is the first place he’ll come. This is his haunt.”

“Do you think Miller might have some pertinent information?”

“About the carjacking or the homicide, no, but he can help you get a better handle on Jimmy. All I can tell you is that Jimmy was a good soldier, the kind who could be counted on. Carried out his orders without any bellyaching.”

Ella waited, trying to figure out where this was going.

“Okay, so let’s cut to the chase,” he said as if he’d read her mind. “PFC Blacksheep and I served in the same unit overseas for eighteen months, and before that we trained together. Everyone in our unit knew each other, and, on top of that, Jimmy’s brother Samuel is with the PD. His death is family business as far as I’m concerned. So here’s
my card. If you need anything—backup, whatever—consider me on call.”

She took the card and jammed it into her jacket pocket. “Thanks, I’ll keep your offer in mind. But, so far, we’ve got it covered.”

“Any idea why the carjacking turned deadly this time?”

“We’re still checking all the angles.” Big Ed had been right. Everyone wanted to help on this one, which meant all eyes would be on their
investigation. “I do have one question you might be able to answer. Since everyone was coming home from the same place, how come more guys didn’t ride back together?”

He shrugged. “Some of the enlisted men may have come back together, I don’t know. I drove back alone because it’s against regulations for enlisted personnel and officers to fraternize. I also came back a week earlier than some because
my enlistment was up. It had been extended months ago, but I was due for my discharge.”

She nodded. “Do you happen to know if Jimmy Blacksheep had a personal weapon?”

Calvin Sanders leaned back and considered her question. “All of the men in the unit are from New Mexico and a good percentage of them were born and raised here in the Four Corners. I’d be willing to bet that most of them owned
handguns or rifles or both before shipping overseas,” he said, then paused before continuing. “I’ve been told that some soldiers feel naked without a gun when they first leave the service. Overseas, your weapon becomes a part of you—your lifeline and your insurance. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jimmy picked one up before making the drive back,” he said. “But, to be fair, some soldiers go the other way.
Once they’re back and out of the service, they won’t go within a hundred yards of a weapon.”

“What’s your best guess? Do you have any idea which way Jimmy would go?” Ella would normally avoid asking a Navajo to speak for another, but most Anglos didn’t have that cultural restriction in their background.

Sanders thought about it, taking a sip of coffee. “I can’t tell you for sure, but I remember
hearing talk in the chow line. Private Blacksheep mentioned that he grew up hunting in Carson National Forest and down on the Jicarilla Reservation, places like that. If I had to make a guess, I’d say he might have bought himself a sidearm before making the trip home. But he would have had to have picked it up right before he left. He wouldn’t have been allowed to bring it to his base quarters—unless
he sneaked it in.”

Sanders finished his coffee. “If Private Blacksheep bought himself a gun from a dealer, the Feds will have a record of it along with the rest of the paperwork.”

“I’ll be touching base with my FBI source later this morning. Right now I’ve got to get going.”

“Something else,” Sanders said as he stood up. “Once in a while a solder finds a way to smuggle a weapon back—a souvenir,
you know—despite the new levels of security. So, if he had a weapon, you still might not find a record of it.”

“Good to know. Thanks,” Ella said.

Ella was walking toward the door when she heard a familiar voice yell out, “Hey, good looking, whatcha doing in a dump like this?”

Ella recognized Teeny’s voice immediately. Turning, she walked to where he was sitting and, in the spirit of the game,
crossed her arms across her chest, trying to appear indignant. “You talking to me, boy?”

Teeny laughed out loud, but before Ella could say anything else, Calvin suddenly appeared at her side.

“If you’ve got a problem, maybe you’d like to take it up with me instead of the lady,” Calvin challenged.

Teeny, never one to back down, made a show of getting to his feet, which took some time. Calvin
stood six feet tall, but Teeny was taller, and outweighed the Farmington cop by an easy hundred, at least. Teeny was as big as any National Football League defensive tackle, and probably a lot quicker on his feet. In comparison, Calvin suddenly looked puny and insignificant.

“Easy, guys. Sergeant Sanders, this is an old friend, Bruce Little.”

Calvin still wouldn’t take his eyes off Teeny. “Why
don’t I walk you to the door, Ella?”

Ella looked from one man to the other. This had started because of her, but it was developing into an ugly challenge that could pointlessly escalate unless she lightened things up. “Boys, boys,” she said, trying to sound like a harried mother. “We’ll take out a ruler and measure. Drop your drawers.”

Surprised, Calvin chuckled, and Teeny burst out laughing.

“Bruce used to be a tribal police officer before he went into the private sector. We’re all brothers here,” she said, and introduced Calvin Sanders.

Teeny extended his hand and Sanders shook it. “Ella’s an old, old friend.”

“Hey, that was one ‘old’ too many, guy,” she said.

Both men laughed again. “Well, I’m not needed here,” Sanders said. “You two can catch up, but I’ll be on my way.”

“We’ll
talk again soon, Sergeant,” Ella said.

Teeny watched Ella’s expression as Calvin walked out of the bar. “I’ve seen that look. What’s bugging you about Sanders?”

“Don’t know, Teeny,” she said softly, shaking her head. To this day, she was the only person who could call him Teeny and not end up gumming her food. “I’m working a really odd case.”

“Yeah—the vet who got gunned down on the way home
from the war. Heard about it.”

It didn’t surprise her. Teeny’s network on and off the Rez was impressive. Perhaps part of it was that people didn’t feel comfortable saying no to Teeny whenever he wanted information. In fact, they volunteered it just to keep him happy. And it usually did.

“You need help on that, call me in—on the house. Don’t feel right having one of our servicemen go out that
way, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m with you on that. I’ll keep your offer in mind and let you know. Thanks.”