Turquoise Girl (8 page)

“I’m fifteen minutes away. What’s your situation?”

“About twenty demonstrators
have hiked in to the work site, and are getting in the way of the construction. Some pot shards turned up this morning in the area being excavated, and word got out. The protestors are claiming the workers are desecrating holy ground, so they’re trying to put an immediate stop to the work. There are three security guards present, but they haven’t been able to catch any of the trespassers. The
real problem is that the work crew is getting fed up and are about to take things into their own hands. I could really use some backup.”

“Do the artifacts look like the real deal? Supposedly, the site was already checked out by the anthropologists and cleared.”

“The ones I saw didn’t look old to me, but I’m no expert on Navajo pottery.”

“Hang tight. I’ll be there.”

Ella switched on her sirens
and raced down the highway to the same turnoff she’d taken the other day. The gate was closed, and an anxious-looking security guard stood behind the fence, a two-way radio at his ear.

The actual construction site was a mile farther down the road, and when Ella finally arrived, she spotted Officer Talk standing among a group of five men in white hard hats. The contractor’s vehicles, mostly bulldozers,
graders, scrapers, and a few big machines with knobby rollers, were parked together, their engines turned off. She could see operators or drivers in each of the cabs or seats.

At least the workers were cooperating, Ella noted as she got out of her vehicle, Mace and baton in hand. The protestors were standing in a group about fifty feet away, down in a depression where several feet of earth had
already been removed. Three men in dirty security guard uniforms were about halfway between the groups, standing beside a seated, chubby, handcuffed Navajo man in equally dusty street clothes.

Ella walked over to Officer Talk. “Looks like you’ve managed to keep tempers from flaring so far.”

“Just barely. When I got here, the demonstrators were running around in groups of two, getting in the
way and forcing the machinery operators to stop or change direction to avoid hitting them. According to the foreman”—Marianna gestured toward Stover, the man Ella had seen the other night—“they showed up on foot in pairs, coming in from the direction of the highway.”

“What about those artifacts?” Ella asked.

Stover took a step forward, then pointed toward a white company pickup in the middle
of the parked vehicles. “Got them locked in my toolbox. I think somebody sneaked them in early this morning and stuck the pieces just below the surface. They don’t look authentic. We saw some real tribal pottery at the meetings we had months ago with the experts. You know, so we’ve be able to protect any authentic sites.”

“Did you pick up everything?” Ella asked. As she turned her head toward
the group of demonstrators, she saw someone with a camcorder, maybe the same guy as before, filming them. He looked familiar, only this time he was wearing sunglasses in addition to the cap. Since none of the other demonstrators had anything but regular glasses on, the cameraman stood out.

Cameraman tapped a huge guy in a gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans standing beside him on the shoulder, and
the big Navajo stepped forward. She recognized the man, Albert Manus—a former tackle for the Kirtland Central Broncos football team. Now in his thirties, Manus worked as a bouncer at a Farmington bar. She knew this because Manus had a reputation for getting into fights, on the job or off, especially when encountering Shiprock High alumni. The rivalry between schools had been going on since the late
Sixties, and word had it that Teeny had been the only one who’d ever kicked Albert’s butt.

Manus began to walk, actually it was more of an attitude-enhanced waddle, headed directly toward where she and Officer Talk were standing.

Marianne brought out her Taser. “Hope this thing is packing a full charge.”

Ella touched the young officer’s arm. “Let me have first crack at him. If he gets by me,
light him up like a Christmas tree.”

“It’s your…” Marianne said without thinking.

“Decision? Funeral? Ass?” Ella mumbled, stepping forward. She planned on meeting Albert halfway. If things got violent and the big guy got past her, it would give Officer Talk room to maneuver.

Unfortunately, shooting him wasn’t an option at the moment, and she didn’t really want this to escalate into a full-out
confrontation if it could be avoided by using her baton. Maybe Manus was just pulling a bluff. But she was a Shiprock High alumni, and that was a strike against her already.

“Counting on me not hitting a woman, Clah? Even one who used to play hoops for the Cretans.”

The shot against the Chieftains was pure Albert, so she ignored it. “Nobody needs to get hit today, Mr. Manus. Your people have
already made the point. Now it’s time to go home. Don’t make me have to lock you up. Inciting a riot can get people hurt.” Ella stopped on hard-packed ground, wanting to be sure of her footing. She thumbed the safety of her pistol on, then turned so the weapon wasn’t within easy reach. Then she waited for the two-hundred-fifty-pound man to close the distance.

Manus, broad shouldered and barrel
shaped, with short legs that looked like stumps, changed his direction slightly, but kept on coming. He pretended to pass her by, then suddenly turned, grabbing at her waist.

She’d seen it coming a mile away and was ready to respond. She kicked him right in the groin. The loud groans Ella heard came from the two groups of men, not Albert, unfortunately. He rocked back, staying on his feet, and
laughed, shaking his head and wagging his finger at her.

She staggered back; kicking him had almost knocked her to the ground. “A jock wearing a jock,” she said. “Should have known your priority would be protecting your brains.”

“Behind that cup is every woman’s dream, Clah. Better be careful or you’ll get me all excited.” He held out his hands in a big welcoming gesture. “Too late. Let’s start
with a
big
hug.” Albert reached out, trying to grab her again. He was slow, and she evaded him once more, ducking past his defenses and slapping him hard on the face.

She then faked a right jab, and slapped him on the left cheek. Messing with his pride was part of her strategy. Albert was used to shaking off punches.

His face was turning red already. “Don’t bitch-slap me!” Manus reached out,
trying to grab her wrist.

It was what she’d been waiting for. She grabbed his wrist instead and took hold of his hand, pinching the nerve behind his fingers with her finger and thumb. She then applied all the pressure she could muster.

“Damn!” Albert squealed, stumbling to his knees. Cursing, he swept out with his other arm, trying to knock her down. She kicked him in the elbow and stepped up
the pinch hold.

By then Albert was in agony. “Stop! I give! I give!” He moaned, his face contorted.

Ella backed off on the pressure just a little, having noticed Marianna standing close. “Cuff his left wrist to his left ankle, Officer Talk,” she ordered.

“If it’ll fit,” Marianna said, reaching for the cuffs at her belt. Albert tried to turn away.

Ella applied more pressure. “Hold still, and
this’ll be over in a minute.”

Albert yelled, then stopped moving. “Okay, okay. I’m…cool.”

Ten seconds later, Albert was lying on his right side, his left arm fastened to his left leg.

“Now what? Ma’am,” Marianna asked.

“If he gets an attitude, rap him on the shin with your baton,” Ella ordered. She turned to verify that the construction workers hadn’t moved during the confrontation. All were
still there except for one.

A tall Navajo in a company hard hat with the name “Morgan” written in permanent marker on the front decided to join them. He was maybe six foot two in his boots, and obviously in a foul mood. Dusty sweat ran down his face, and there was a racoon effect around his eyes that told her he’d been wearing protective goggles. “Okay, you’ve got the big guy. You gonna get rid
of these other jerks, too, so we can finally get some work done?”

“If we move in, they’re going to scatter like before. It’ll take hours to round them up with the manpower we have,” Marianna said, looking at Ella for confirmation.

“Just keep your people here another five minutes,” Ella said to Stover, ignoring Morgan. “I’m going to go talk to them, and maybe we can find a way to resolve this.”

Ella knew that with their manpower shortage they weren’t going to get more officers on the scene for quite a while. Taking Manus out of the picture was a good beginning, but she had to find a way to diffuse the situation now before it turned nasty—as in a riot.

Ella started toward the demonstrators. As she passed by the security guards, she gave them a nod, and added, “Just stay here, and remain
calm, okay?”

The oldest guard, who appeared to be in his sixties and looked as if he would have much rather been playing checkers or walking a mall, smiled weakly. “You’ve got it, officer.”

Making sure the demonstrators she was approaching could see clearly, Ella brought out her handgun. Holding it barrel down, she slipped out the clip and placed it in her pocket. Ejecting the shell in the chamber
into her hand, she stowed away the round in the same pocket.

At least this way, if the demonstrators turned on her, they wouldn’t get her loaded weapon. Ella holstered her pistol and brought out her baton, holding it in front of her. She would play a bluff, then make a deal, but the baton would let her protect herself if things went wrong.

“Benjamin Harvey!” Ella yelled.

“Here,” came a familiar
voice. The man took a step forward but just then, an object flew out from the back of the group. Ella blocked it with her baton, and a large clod of dirt shattered in a cloud of dust and sand.

“Who threw that?” Benjamin turned, along with half the others around him. Ella saw a man running off, the same guy with the camera—and sunglasses.

“Ella?” Marianne yelled.

“Let him go,” Ella yelled back.
“We’re not here looking for trouble, we’re here for the truth, right?” She looked straight at Benjamin, trying to ignore the sand the shattered dirt clod had sprayed into her face and eyes.

“Yeah. The truth,” Benjamin responded. Several men around him nodded in agreement.

“Then listen to what I have to say,” Ella replied, placing the baton back into the loop on her belt as she stepped within
ten feet of the group. They all looked as hot and dirty as the security guards, and were probably as eager to find a way out of a violent confrontation as she was, especially now that Albert was no longer there to cover their backs. The realization gave her confidence. Her plan
would
work.

“How about you and I go check out these so-called artifacts?” Ella asked Benjamin. “After examining them,
if you still think they might be authentic, we’ll have the experts come back, along with a
hataalii
, my brother. You
know
he can be trusted to tell you the truth.”

Ten minutes later, the crisis had past. Benjamin studied the shards of pottery in Stover’s truck and their examination revealed the pottery to be unfired and quite recently made. Signs also indicated that all three of the pots had
been broken before being unearthed, probably by being dropped. Benjamin himself had made the final discovery that irrevocably revealed the true nature of the pot shards. On one piece he’d discovered the gummy remnants of what had obviously been a price tag.

Ella spoke to Benjamin briefly about the protestors. “Is the guy with the camera one of your regulars?”

“No, I’ve only seen him twice,”
he said. “He’s a real puzzle, that one,” he said, and gave Ella details she hadn’t known, like his first name, Leroy, and where Benjamin thought the man lived.

“Thanks,” Ella said, digesting what he’d told her. She’d talk to Justine and the others about this as soon as possible.

Lost in thought, Ella watched Benjamin hurry off. For now peace had been restored. The protestors were dispersing,
moving out in twos toward the locations off-site where they’d hidden their vehicles.

Albert Manus had been questioned, but was unable to tell her anything about the cameraman except his first name, Leroy, and that Leroy had dared him to take on the tall lady cop. Manus was released after that, and he walked off quickly without comment.

Ella stood with Marianna as the workers began to start up
their equipment again. “I think we’re okay here now.”

“Someone’s determined to keep trouble brewing, though,” Marianna warned.

Ella thought about the instigator with the camera and what she’d learned. They were either up against someone determined to get a hot story, or with another agenda she’d yet to discover. The only thing she knew for sure is that they hadn’t seen the last of “Leroy.”

Justine arrived minutes later just as Ella was walking to her vehicle. Work was beginning again, and they had to shout to hear each other over the roar of heavy equipment. Ella gave her a quick summary of events, then brought up the question that had been bothering her.

“That camera guy…it’s a weird thing. He wasn’t at
any of the demonstrations held while the power plant was going through the approval process. We never saw him at all until the other night. Then, today, he shows up, tries to provoke a riot by throwing the closest thing he could find, and runs off rather than face the people he’s supposed to be working with.”

“So who is he, Ella? Shouldn’t somebody among the protestors know the guy?”

“I asked
Benjamin, and he said he thought the guy lived near him in one of those squatter houses. Calls himself Leroy, no last name. This Leroy offered to film the demonstrations so they’d have a record of the truth that neither the tribe nor the construction workers could twist around.”

“So he’s not connected to any of the media or press,” Justine said thoughtfully. “He’s just a troublemaker out to stir
things up, like siccing Albert Manus on you. I’ll ask around and see if I can get a lead on him.”

“I wonder if he’s the one who planted the phoney relics? Benjamin’s pretty ticked off about the whole thing. He assured me he’s going to find out if it was one of his own group. He’s worried that he’s going to look like a fool and lose all credibility once the story gets out,” Ella said.

“Officer
Talk kept her cool today,” Justine commented. “But you took some serious chances.”

“I gambled that Benjamin’s allies would turn out to be reasonable people who’d recognize the truth when they saw it.”

“It was a good call,” Justine said.

“Anything new on our case from your end?” Ella asked, trying to focus back on the murder investigation.

“Nothing yet.”

“I’ve got to fill you in on a few things
then,” Ella said and updated Justine on what she’d learned about Marco’s accident and Valerie’s “call girl” activities of a few years ago. Then she showed her the piece of paper found in Marco’s wrecked pickup. “Can you follow up on this telephone number?”

“It looks familiar.” Justine stared at it for a moment. “I think it’s the victim’s, but let me check.” She made a cell phone call to Tache,
then read it off. A moment later she had her answer. “It’s Valerie’s,” Justine said. “Do you think Marco killed her? But that note with the biblical passage doesn’t fit in with him at all. Marco’s not Christian. He’s not anything, if you follow. Modernist, maybe. But I think booze rules his life.”

A high rate of alcoholism was one of the Rez’s less flattering statistics. Right up there with teen
suicide. Low self-esteem and poverty took its toll in many different ways. “Unfortunately, we can’t question Marco. He’s in ICU,” Ella said. “But have Tache find out everything he can about Valerie. That’s his priority for now.” Everyone did double duty these days. Being the crime scene photographer didn’t mean he wasn’t expected to take part in other aspects of the investigation, too.

For a
brief moment Ella felt a touch of nostalgia as she remembered how it had been when she’d worked for the FBI. They’d had the resources and a decent budget. She then thought of her old partner…and a case they’d worked on in L.A. It had been many years ago, over a decade in fact, but she was almost sure there were distinct similarities between this case and that one. She made a mental note to call Blalock
and see about his search through VICAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database. She’d be calling Dennis Anderson, too, as soon as possible. Her ex-partner was now serving out of the Denver office.

“You have a photo of the victim with you, Justine?”

“Nope. Everything is on my desk. When I heard you needed backup…”

“That’s okay. We’ll return to the station, pick up a photo, then visit
the Double Play Sports Bar in Kirtland.”

As they headed to the bar, Ella updated Justine on Reverend Campbell’s visit to the Quick Stop the night of the murder, then added, “I’d like you to talk to Reverend Campbell and see if you can figure out what he was doing in the area.”

“I can tell you where he was that night, at least for a while,” Justine said. “But it’s far from an airtight alibi.”

“What do you mean?”

“He teaches a Bible class and that evening’s session was held at Ramona Willie’s home, scheduled to begin at eight. I was there, too. He was late, and didn’t show up until eight-thirty or so. He’d stopped to buy some coffee for the gathering. But he was at Ramona’s for less than ten minutes when he got sicker than a dog. I mean the man was green. He excused himself at one
point, and was gone for so long Ramona went to see if he was okay. He was in the bathroom for maybe a half hour.”

“And you all stuck around?”

“We went over the lesson ourselves, then everyone but me went home. Ramona and I were ready to take him to the hospital, if needed, but he came out close to nine-thirty or so, shaky, but feeling better. From what he said yesterday, I think it was a really
bad case of food poisoning.”

“From what?”

“He said he’d picked up one of the homemade sausages Jane Joe made for the Quick Stop, and scarfed it down on the way to Bible class.”

Ella cringed. Jane was one of the worst cooks around, and sometimes the Quick Stop had problems with outdated food items. “I wouldn’t have touched them with a ten-foot pole. But tell me, are you sure that the bad food
wasn’t just an excuse? People who’ve just killed someone often get sick to their stomachs. I’ve seen it with cops more than once.”

“I suppose, but Reverend Campbell isn’t the kind of person to do something like that,” Justine said firmly.

Ella considered this latest piece of information. Traditionalists believed that all things were interrelated but she’d yet to find any connecting threads in
this case.

“I don’t like this, Ella. You’re not seriously considering Reverend Campbell as a suspect, are you?”

“He is until we can rule him out.”

“He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And I mean that literally. I was in his office one day and instead of swatting it, he shooshed it out a window.”

“Believe me, Justine, the last thing I want to do is go after the reverend. If we do, we’ll have trouble from
all sides. But we can’t ignore the fact that the victim was drowned in what might have been a forced baptism. Then there’s also the biblical quote and the fact that we can’t prove where Reverend Campbell was during a critical time, except that he was in the right neighborhood.”

“He practically staggered to the bathroom that night, Ella. Something besides fear and anxiety was at work here. He
could barely stand up.”

Ella let it go, for now. “I’m going to call Emily. The Double Play is in her jurisdiction and we’ll need her department’s cooperation to go there for answers.”

It took less than ten minutes to get what Ella needed. The county often worked closely with tribal PD and both sides had learned the advantages of cooperation.

Emily was waiting for them as they pulled up at
the bar. There were only a few cars in the parking lot, all as close to the entrance as possible, under outside lamps.

Emily joined Ella and Justine at the door. “This place is the pits at night. We get calls three or four times a week. The county has even tried to get it shut down.”

“Were any arrests made here last night? In particular did county haul in a Navajo man by the name of Gilbert
Tso?”

“There
was
a fight here last night but, by the time the patrolman arrived it was mostly over. The owner handles thing pretty well, considering the knuckle-draggers this place attracts.”

“I know—she’s ex-military, right?” Ella asked.

“Yeah, and she’s tough as nails,” Emily said. “An ex-sergeant in the Marines. She keeps a baseball bat behind the bar and she looks like Bruce Lee with that
thing. I’ve seen her in action.”

It took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside, so they stood at the end of the bar closest to the door. Ella heard the dull thud of a game of darts over to her right, and the sound of some kind of sports event on the TVs in the back. The smell of sweat, tobacco, and booze was so strong it flooded her senses for a moment. As her vision
cleared, Ella saw the large, muscular woman behind one of the beer taps, watching them as she topped off a tall glass of draught.

“On or off duty?” the woman asked, cutting the tap just as the head threatened to overflow the glass.

Ella, whose badge was beneath her jacket, glanced at the others with her. There was no outward sign that she or Julie were law enforcement. “Good eye, ma’am. You
the owner of this place?”

The woman smiled. “That’s me. I’m Chris Vasquez, bartender, bouncer, and badass. What can I do for you and your backups?”

Ella had to smile. “We’re not here to arrest anyone,” she answered, hoping to put Ms. Vasquez at ease. “I just needed some information. There was a Navajo man here last night, one of your regulars, I believe, and he got involved in a fight. Do you
remember the incident?”

She laughed. “Good old Gilbert! Wait, don’t tell me. He sent you to arrest me because I thumped him with my bat before he could break up the place.”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Ella said. “I just needed to verify he was here. I don’t suppose you remember the time this fight took place, do you?”

“Yeah, he came in early, around six-thirty. He was in a surly mood, too.
Probably ’cause he didn’t have a woman with him who would pay his tab. The fight started about seven-thirty, I guess. Lasted, what, thirty seconds before I clocked him and that cowboy.”

Ella nodded to Justine, who showed the bartender Valerie’s DMV photo. “Did you ever see Gilbert with this woman?” Ella asked her.

She looked at it a moment. “Yeah. I think so, but he had several women, one young
enough to be his daughter. Last night he was with the young, uptight girl. It was the first time I’d seen her. She sat ramrod straight and never ordered a thing. Didn’t even want a Coke. When she finally left, she refused to pay his tab, too. Smart girl.”

Ella’s luck was working today so she decided to play a hunch. “Was the young woman about five foot two, maybe one hundred and thirty pounds,
really long hair, and wearing traditional Navajo clothes, like with a long skirt and all?”

“That’s a good description. And no makeup, or very little.”

Ella had no doubt now that the woman with Gilbert had been Boots, Valerie’s daughter. It was natural that she would have wanted to know the man her mother cared about, but why a staunch traditionalist like Boots had agreed to come to a bar with
Gilbert was beyond her. Even more troubling was that the investigative circle kept coming closer to home all the time. Boots had helped take care of Ella’s daughter for years and was practically family.

The ex-Marine spoke again after a moment. “In case it helps, I recall that they didn’t come in together. He showed up first, then about fifteen minutes later she came in and sat down with him
at a table. After about a half hour, she left—alone. And if you ask me, she’d never been at a bar in her life. She hardly ever looked up, and when she did, her eyes were as wide as saucers.”

Ella nodded slowly. “So she left, and Gilbert stayed?”

“Yeah, but I stopped serving him right after that because he’d run out of money. He stayed nursing the last of his beer for a bit, feeling sorry for
himself, then someone made a smart-ass comment about the young woman who’d been with him earlier. Gilbert flew out of his chair swinging. My backup bartender tried to break it up, but when I realized it wasn’t working, I grabbed the Pacifier,” she said, pointing to the massive bat propped up behind the counter. “When I bring that out, people know it’s going to be thumping time unless they walk away.”

She looked at Ella, then at the others, and shrugged. “Anyway, as far as fights go, it was a quickie. A few punches, a little blood—that’s all.”

With the interview over, Emily headed back east on patrol and Ella and Justine hit the road in the opposite direction.

“The bartender was referring to Boots—Jennifer Clani—wasn’t she?”

Ella nodded. “It had to be her. That means we’ll have to question
her next. She’s always at Kevin’s, so head on over there.” Seeing Justine nod, she continued. “Tache is following up on the names of the people at the shoe game, right?” Ella asked her as they passed through the rural community above Kirtland—Fruitland—and continued west toward the reservation.

“Yeah, but last I heard he’d come up with nothing. The guys all live in the area and are regulars.
They’re night people and the Morning Stop Café isn’t one of their haunts. They also operate on Indian time. Not many of them even carry a watch. Getting the precise time of Benny’s visit and other events that they may or may not have seen is difficult, as you can imagine.”

Ella nodded, her thoughts racing. “Tell me, what’s this I’ve heard about Reverend Campbell going around trying to convert
people on the Rez?”

Justine said nothing for a moment. “He’s not a fanatic about it, Ella. Really. The rev is low-key except during the high points of his sermons. But there
is
a membership drive going on at the church right now.”

“I got a different take from Benny Joe. He claims that Campbell is bugging a lot of people in the neighborhood.”

Justine nodded slowly. “Okay, now your interest in
him makes more sense. Reverend Campbell
is
on a mission but, Ella, he stays away from the traditionalists and New Traditionalists. People in those groups already have something they can hold on to, a belief system that grounds them. I’d be surprised to hear that any of them are griping about him. Reverend Campbell says he’s hoping to connect with the Navajos who’ve lost track of the old ways and
haven’t replaced them with anything else. Those are the ones he says need us. They’re vulnerable to things like alcoholism because they have nothing to hold on to. A moral vacuum, he calls it. Reverend Campbell wants to give them an alternative—a way out and a way in—by opening our doors to them.”