Turquoise Girl (10 page)

“Where are the knife and the note now?” Ella asked.

“In my office. I bent the tip of the knife blade prying it out, I’m afraid.”

Ella tried not to groan. That meant he’d probably wiped all usable prints from it in the process—providing the
vandals had been dumb enough to leave any. “Let’s go take a look,” she suggested.

Moments later Justine placed the blade, an inexpensive hunting knife with a handle made from deer antlers, into a cardboard express mail envelope provided by Campbell. Ella slipped the note into a clear glassine envelope, then studied the message a while longer. Unless she missed her guess, this was also a warning
that the worst was yet to come.

“What’s it say?” Justine asked.

“‘Our land, our justice,’” Ella answered.

Ford, who’d just returned from visiting a sick parishioner, came in with freshly brewed cups of coffee for everyone. “This incident must have something to do with our membership drive. It’s the only explanation that even comes close to making sense.”

Ella could think of other reasons, but didn’t comment. If there had
been a leak at the station or one of her people had inadvertently let the Fierce Ones know how the victim had died or about the biblical quote found at the scene…

“But we’ve had membership drives before,” Reverend Campbell protested. “We’re simply opening our doors, inviting people to come join us. But maybe I’ve been overzealous and have offended someone. I suppose that’s possible,” Reverend
Campbell added sorrowfully.

“It would probably be a good idea for you to ease up for a while,” Ella said, looking closely at Campbell’s hand as he held the coffee cup. There were no cuts or bruises. “But in all fairness there are other factors at play here that I’m not at liberty to discuss at the moment.”

“Could any of our parishioners also be in danger of retaliation?” Ford asked.

“I don’t
have any reason to believe that at the moment, but both of you may be targets,” Ella said slowly.

Reverend Campbell nodded and took a sip of his coffee trying to calm himself. “I can’t for the life of me think of anyone I’ve offended,” he said, then paused. “Well, I did have a serious discussion with Stan Brewster not long ago, but it was church business, not related to any of this.”

“I’d like
to know more.”

“It was about the example he should set for the community since he sponsors our team,” he said with a shrug. “As I said, unrelated to this.”

Justine caught Ella’s eye. They both had a good idea what Campbell had talked to Brewster about.

Then Ella looked at Ford. He was Navajo and she doubted the people who’d pulled down the sign would have had him in mind as a target, but she
couldn’t guarantee anything at this point. “I’ll do my best to find out who’s responsible for this, and to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

As they left the church, Ella realized how quiet Justine had become. That usually meant she was nothing short of furious. “Okay, spill it, partner. What’s bugging you?” Ella asked.

“I think we have a leak in the department. I’d be willing to bet that
this attack ties into the fact that the victim was ‘baptized.’ If word got out that the note contained Scripture, it might have easily caused the Fierce Ones to jump the gun and react. I’m sure Lena Clani has gone to them already for help.”

“That occurred to me as well. We should increase patrols in this area,” Ella said, then called it in. As soon as she was finished, she added, “What do you
say we go lean on Jimmy Levaldo?” Ella suggested. “Word is that he’s calling the shots now for the Fierce Ones.”

“Great idea.”

They arrived at an old crumbling gray stucco-coated house southwest of the San Juan River about a half hour later. The road, really not more than two ruts, was in terrible shape and the trip had felt like a motorcycle ride down the center of a railroad track.

“Jimmy’s
a traditionalist. Do we wait?” Justine asked, parking.

“Let’s give him that. We know he’s here. That’s his pickup over there,” Ella said, pointing to the side of the house.

They were there less than a minute before a beefy Navajo man appeared in the doorway and waved, motioning for them to enter.

Ella led the way, letting Justine watch her back. If anyone else was there, they wouldn’t be surprised
from behind, at least. Neither of them liked dealing with vigilante groups, but a line had been crossed and Ella intended to make sure that it didn’t happen again.

“I’ve already heard what happened at the church,” he said, preempting them. “It wasn’t our doing, though the two people responsible were hoping you’d think it was. In any case, I’ve handled the matter. It won’t happen again.”

The
statement surprised her. “You certainly didn’t waste any time. Who was responsible?”

Jimmy said nothing, staring off at a corner of the room, and Ella guessed from his expression that he was trying to decide if he should tell her or not. It took several long moments before he finally spoke. “We have a younger generation. They’re more…impatient,” he hedged.

“Maybe you should muzzle them,” Justine
said sharply.

He looked at her, then nodded. “Ah. You go to that church, don’t you? The Good Shepherd, is it?”

“Yeah, and…?”

“It was just a statement of fact,” Levaldo said calmly.

“If you have knowledge of a crime and are keeping it from us,
that’s
a crime,” Ella pressed, deliberately getting in his face and staring into his eyes.

“I have no knowledge of anything,” he said smoothly, looking
away. “I hear things, that’s all. I was at the Quarters Laundromat earlier. I was nowhere near that church.”

On the Rez, where water was a precious commodity and septic systems were poorly maintained or nonexistent, people regularly used Laundromats. Ella had learned that you could find out just about anything you wanted to know if you hung out in one long enough. Laundromats were a legendary
source of gossip—a gathering place on weekends for many.

“Do
not
let this happen again,” Ella said in a hard voice. “This is
our
case and we won’t tolerate interference.”

“Understood. But perhaps you should spend more time investigating the death of that woman than running down petty crimes like church vandalism. Unless you’ve already made an arrest in the murder case?” His expression was one
of faint amusement.

“Now who’s being impatient?” Justine replied.

He walked to the door and held it open for them. “I would like you to leave now. You bring disharmony to my home.”

Justine was muttering all the way back to the vehicle. “Can you believe that?” she said, slamming the car door. “
We
bring disharmony.”

“To people like Jimmy, we’re just an arm of Anglo law,” Ella said, wishing things
were different.

Justine said nothing at first, then finally added, “Maybe we are, but we’re still needed here.”

“Yes, we are.”

When they reached the main highway, Justine glanced over at her. “Where to now, Ella?”

She was about to answer when her cell phone rang. It was Blalock.

“Hey, Ella. I finally got a copy of your old files. I think you should get over here.”

“To Blalock’s,” Ella told
Justine as she hung up. “It sounds like we’re finally about to get some answers.”

Ella sat across from Blalock’s desk, looking through the printout, which included copies of her own handwritten notes. “It’s coming back to me now. I remember a lot of this. Dennis still has possession of his old notes, maybe he’ll have something to add. Feelings and impressions can make a difference beyond what
was written down at the time.”

Blalock punched the speaker button on his phone. “Dennis, you hear me? I’m here with Ella and her partner, Officer Goodluck.”

“Hello, Officer Goodluck. You have my sympathies. Not to take anything from Officer Goodluck, I heard from Agent Blalock that you’re lost without me, Ella,” her old partner quipped.

Ella laughed. “Don’t you wish.” After exchanging a few
friendly words, they quickly got down to business. “It’s the same scriptural quote that was left at the crime scene way back then. That can’t be coincidental.”

“I dug into my files and finally found my own notes, then spoke to a friend in the L.A. Bureau. There’s been no repeat of that MO there, not since our time,” Anderson replied. Blalock nodded in agreement.

Ella took a deep breath. “Okay,
if you’ve got your old notes in front of you, let’s go over the details, at least those we have concerning
our
involvement in the case. Correct me if I remember something wrong,” she said.

She continued. “We’d been called in to consult because the victim was a Navajo woman from the Four Corners area, my home turf. The crime scene had been staged—like the one here—except that the victim in L.A.
hadn’t been robbed and, unlike Valerie, she’d been drowned in her tub. We were barely past the preliminaries when we were pulled off the case and reassigned to a high-priority op.”

“That’s pretty much the way I remember it,” Dennis said. “And that’s where my notes end.”

“But if we assume we’re dealing with the same killer—and the MO is too similar for me to believe in mere coincidence, why did
he wait all this time to strike again?”

“Good question,” Blalock said.

“Maybe he’s been biding his time. Or maybe he was just passing through, needed cash, and decided to have some fun at the same time,” Dennis suggested. “Only he’s older now and the vic decided to really put up a fight. That ticked him off and, before he knew it, he’d beaten the woman to death—before he could immerse her in
the tub.”

“That’s one of the things that breaks the MO. But, just in case it
is
the same guy, we need to find out who the suspects were back then,” Ella said. “We need to look at what happened to the investigation after we were pulled.”

“I agree, and that’s where VICAP or the L.A. cops are going to have to help you out. It’s out of my hands,” Dennis said. “But I wish you the best of luck. And
if you’re ever in Denver, Ella…”

Once Agent Anderson was off the line, Blalock glanced over at Ella. “I have a problem with coincidences as well, but the victim in the L.A. case was a Navajo woman. Do you think the local newspaper ran the story? If so, then its at least remotely possible that we’re dealing with a copycat.”

“Which we have to rule out. Access the newspaper database,” Ella said,
giving him her password.

After several minutes, Blalock glanced up, then gestured toward his printer, where an image was starting to appear. “Looks like the story got picked up by the wire services first, and then it was run here, a day or two later. I’ll put in a request for information on the case from LAPD right now, okay?”

Ella nodded, and as Blalock worked she scanned the printout of the
newspaper article, which gave most of the details of the crime, including the drowning in the tub and a reference to the biblical quote. “There’s a lot of information here. Our suspect may not have been linked to what happened in L.A.,” Ella said, handing the paper to Justine next.

Ella then filled Blalock in on what she’d learned about Brewster and his relationship with the women employees at
the café.

“Have you spoken to the other waitress yet?”

“No, but there’s also Marco Pete, who may be connected…or not. We can’t question him until he’s out of ICU, but he was in the area at the right time. He might have seen something, or been part of what went down.”

“Is an Anglo doctor handling his case?” Blalock asked.

Ella nodded. “I believe so.”

“Then I’ll visit the hospital tomorrow,”
Blalock said. “If Marco’s recovered consciousness, maybe I can persuade the doctor to let me ask his patient a few questions.”

“Good idea,” Ella said. Anglo doctors were sometimes more responsive to requests that came directly from the FBI.

Blalock stood. “It’s getting late, and it’ll take hours for LAPD to dig up the information on the L.A. murder. Apparently it’s in their old system, and was
never transferred because the case was cold. So let’s go talk to that waitress. If we wake her up and she’s half asleep and groggy, we might get more out of her.”

Lynn Bidtah’s place was in the foothills of the Chuskas, a forty-five-minute drive from Shiprock. The road to the house was a joke interrupted by rocks and an occasional deposit of soft sand.

“I’m getting way too old for this, ladies.
Maybe I should retire,” he muttered, after either bouncing or fishtailing for fifteen minutes.

Dwayne Blalock had been threatening to do that for the past five years. At first, Ella had thought he really meant it, but she’d grown to realize that he actually dreaded the fact that someday he
would
be forced to leave the Bureau. Being an agent had defined him for too long and, like most people who
loved their work, he’d be lost without it. Of course he could open a PI firm, many former law enforcement people did, but that just wasn’t his style. Blalock and the Bureau were one and the same, even if he liked to gripe.

“Do you want me to drive back? I realize that it’s almost ten, past your bedtime,” Ella said, teasing him.

“Stuff it, Clah,” he growled, braking to a stop in front of the
cinder block home nestled by a rocky slope. Here, the boulders were actually the size of large kitchen appliances, and the junipers were tall and full, unlike their stubby relatives closer to town.

They remained several feet apart from each other as they walked to the house, with Ella in the center—a good defensive strategy when approaching a strange house at night.

Ella knocked hard, standing
to one side of the door as she’d been trained to do. There was the sound of an inner door being opened, then a porch light came on. Ella could hear someone’s slow, plodding steps inside.

“Tribal police, Miss Bidtah,” Ella called out, identifying them. “Open up, please. We need to speak to you.”

A moment later the door opened and a Navajo woman in her early thirties met them, wearing a dark green
floor-length robe and thick blue socks. Her long black hair draped over her shoulders and hung down to her waist. As she stepped out onto the concrete slab of a porch, Ella saw the bruise that started at Lynn’s neck and went downward toward her breast and disappeared beneath her robe.

“I’m Investigator Clah with the tribal police,” Ella said, flashing her badge, “and this is Officer Goodluck
and Special Agent Blalock.”

Justine held out her gold shield and Blalock stepped up, towering over Justine, who was almost a foot shorter, and displayed his own badge. “FBI,” he said.

“What do you all want from me? It’s late and I have to be at work really early,” she said, blinking against the glare of the porch light.

“We need to ask you some important questions,” Blalock said, pushing the
door open and stepping inside instead of waiting for an invitation.