Turquoise Girl (12 page)

“Yeah, I just heard from Stan. He said you’d probably be stopping by today.” Montoya, a chubby man in his early forties who looked almost inflated in his ill-fitting shirt, gestured for them
to follow him into the adjacent office. “Stan said you’d be checking on his location the night that waitress of his was killed. I met him about four-thirty at the Double Play. There was a Boston–New York game going on, their first matchup of the season. The Double has a great flat-screen TV. It’s like you’re right behind home plate.”

“Anyone else see you there?” Blalock asked.

“The place was
crowded, but hey, the season has just started. Everyone was watching the game. We were toward the back, so I doubt anyone paid any particular attention to us. One of the waitresses, maybe.”

“What did you do after the game?”

“It went into extra innings, so it was nearly nine by the time I got home. I’m not sure what Stan did. He was having some coffee before going out on the road. Lots of drunks
that close to the…”

Ella knew he was about to say “reservation.” Unfortunately, Montoya was right. She focused. “Did you ever hear Stan talk about Valerie Tso?”

“I know she was his bookkeeper, good-looking for a woman who’d been through a lot, I recall him saying. But that’s all I remember. We get together to escape from work, not to talk about it.”

A young couple entered the showroom and walked
immediately over to a tire on display. “Be right with you, folks,” Montoya said, then turned back to Ella and Blalock. “I’m a man short today, so let’s wrap this up so I can tend to my customers.”

Blalock handed Montoya a card. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, call me,” he said.

“Well, there’s one thing you should know,” he said, lowering his voice. “I read about the murder in
the paper, and for the record, there’s no way Stan could have done something like that. The article said that the woman bled to death from her wounds, and Stan has a real phobia about blood. He’d probably rearrange my face if he knew I told you, but one time on a fishing trip I cut my thumb while gutting a fish. I bled like a stuck pig, and Stan nearly fainted. No joke. He’s a tough, macho guy,
but he can’t even serve liver in the café because of all the blood around it. Truth.”

Ella stared, trying to figure out if Jerry was on the level.

“Yeah, I know. Sounds like I’m selling you a bill of goods, doesn’t it? But it’s the truth.”

“One more thing. Do you happen to know how long Brewster’s lived in this area?” Ella asked.

“Practically all his life. I think he was born in Kirtland.
That’s where he met Donna, I believe. They both graduated from Central.”

“Did he ever vacation in California, that you recall?” Ella asked.

Montoya thought about it. “He’s never mentioned California, but I know he used to go to Vegas a lot before we got our own casinos here in the state.”

As they returned to Blalock’s car, Ella remained silent—and frustrated. Nothing seemed to be fitting together
or really making much sense. “This case bugs me. The facts never add up quite right.”

“We’re just not seeing the whole picture. Let’s go talk to Brewster’s wife and see what we can get out of her,” Blalock said.

They arrived at a large home just northwest of the city of Farmington, which had expanded in several directions and was now incorporating former rural areas. Several acres surrounded
the Brewster home, and a large barn stood in the back. Ella could see six horses out in the paddock area.

“They’re not exactly hurting for money,” Blalock said.

“Hardly. You couldn’t afford to feed that many horses if you were,” Ella replied, knowing how difficult it was keeping just two horses in tack, shoes, hay, sweet feed, and mineral blocks—not to mention an occasional vet bill. Sometimes
she found herself hoping that Dawn’s interests would change and she’d discover a passion for basketball instead. Horses were an expensive and often dangerous proposition.

Blalock knocked on the tall, hand-carved door, and a few minutes later a small Navajo woman wearing designer jeans and a loose flannel shirt came to the door. Blalock showed her his ID and Ella did the same.

“Are you Donna
Brewster?” Blalock asked. Seeing her nod, he added, “We need to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”

She nodded. “I was told you’d be stopping by.”

Ella studied her delicately featured face. There were no bruises that she could see beneath the carefully applied makeup. Yet the woman held herself at an odd angle, as if favoring her right side. Maybe it was from a riding accident, but she
was putting her money on Stan.

“Stan said you’d be by to ask me about our employee, the woman who was killed. But, believe me, Stan would know far more about that than I would. I never stop by the café anymore.”

“We’re more interested in what you know about their relationship, actually,” Ella said, her gaze never leaving her face.

Donna expelled her breath slowly. “I know as little as possible.
But I can tell you that he hasn’t been involved with her recently. Stan moves on.”

“Are you all right?” Ella asked, seeing her shift and wince.

“That big buckskin mare out there threw me yesterday. It happens. If you think Stan hurt me, you’re wrong,” she said firmly.

Ella and Blalock exchanged glances. “I know he’s a violent man,” Ella said softly.

“Not with me. My husband and I have an arrangement.
He doesn’t touch me, and I stay out of his way. He can run our business anyway he likes,” she said, then added. “Everything has two sides. Isn’t that what our people always say?

“I know about Stan’s women,” Donna added, then shrugged. “If I wanted to restore the balance by taking a lover of my own, he’d probably understand. He knows its part of the Navajo way. It’s just something I’ve chosen
not to do. But there have been positive things about our marriage. I’ve never known financial hardships, not like many of our people. I have everything I’ll ever need or want.”

“You don’t love him?” Blalock asked.

“That’s an Anglo way of thinking and why half of all marriages fail. The wives all expect too much and don’t know how to make what they have better.”

It was a rehearsed speech, Ella
suddenly realized. “It sounds to me like you’re afraid of him. But you don’t have to be, you know. There are laws that can protect you.”

“Everyone makes compromises to get the things they want,” Donna said, not meeting Ella’s gaze. “My husband knows when to back off. That’s why I’m sure he didn’t kill Valerie Tso.”

Ella suppressed a shudder. The whole situation was making her skin crawl. “Think
back, if you will. Did you and your husband spend any time in California about fourteen years ago? Or maybe just Stan?”

Donna gave Ella a puzzled look. “California? No. Too many people, too many cars. Stan loves Nevada, though. The gambling, and the shows.”

“One last thing. We need to know where you were three days ago—between six to ten o’clock at night,” Blalock said.

“Out of town. I was
at the hospital in Albuquerque with my aunt. The nurse and the doctors on duty can verify that for you if you want. I talked to them about getting long-term care for her.”

After saying good-bye, Ella hurried to the car, anxious to put as much distance between her and Donna as possible. The woman’s attitude and the situation made her sick to her stomach. “I will
never
understand women like her,”
Ella muttered as they got underway. “They just take it.”

“She’s like a zombie,” Blalock said. “Who knows what kind of hold he really has over her? In a situation like that, all kinds of things can come into play.”

“She
could
just walk away. The café is in her name,” Ella said.

“Donna may not know beans about running a business.”

“She could learn,” Ella shot back. “Or hire somebody.”

“That’s
you
, Clah. The woman is obviously very passive, and has a comfortable life. Brewster has his women, and she’s learned to stay away from him as much as she can and not make waves. She made her deal with that devil a long time ago.”

“Someday she’ll explode and fight back.”

“Or not,” Blalock said calmly.

They drove west back to Shiprock and Ella had Blalock drop her off at the station. A minute
later Ella found Justine at the crime lab, working.

“I need a copy of the Bible quote we found at the scene,” Ella said. “I’m going to see Ford and find out if it has any special relevance or interpretation. You got any thoughts on this?”

“I’ve had it on my mind, actually.” Justine read the quote aloud, slowly and thoughtfully. “‘The Lord has made all things for himself; yea, even the wicked
for the day of evil.’” She paused for several long moments. “To me, it sounds like we’ve got a killer with an agenda, partner,” Justine added. “He believes he’s serving the Lord.”

“That’s what’s worrying me. I think the dying’s just begun.”

Ella sat across from Ford in his office as he studied the Bible passage. “In our ministry, we usually focus on the teachings in the New Testament, Ella. This is from Proverbs.”

“I understand but can you tell me if this particular verse has a special meaning to Christians, beyond the obvious?”

“There are almost as many
interpretations of the Bible as there are religions but, to me, it’s simply a way of saying that God made all and He will mete out justice in the end.” He paused to think about it a moment longer, then continued. “Or maybe, getting inside the killer’s head for a moment, he’s thinking that even the wicked have a part in God’s plan and he’s God’s instrument of justice.” He looked up at her and added,
“If that’s the case, you’ve got a huge problem on your hands.”

She nodded slowly. “Do you know if any of the other churches in the area like to focus their sermons on Proverbs?”

“So much of that depends on the minister and the community, Ella. Your father’s church, for example, is very conservative—old-school Bible Belt—scaring Navajos with retribution and damnation—hoping to save their souls
that way. We, on the other hand, look to God as our loving parent, our salvation, too, but we offer hope of heaven, instead of fear of hell.”

“That different, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” He gave her a long look. “So tell me, are you any closer to finding the killer?”

“It’s my job. I’ll find him,” she said, not answering him directly.

“This crime practically landed on your back door. That must make
it even tougher for you,” he said gently.

She nodded. “But, to be honest, I’m always in crisis mode when I’m working. Crime on the Rez is a fact of life, but it needs to be brought under control. All things are interconnected, and everything affects something else. Evil, under control, ceases to be a threat and that’s why law enforcement is so important to the big picture. That’s really what
my job’s all about.”

“Do you think you’re becoming a New Traditionalist?” Ford asked. “Accepting the new world but wrapping it as much as possible in the old values and traditions?”

“No, not strictly speaking. I’ll never walk a simple road, or one that neatly fits any label. But I’ve made my peace with that. The contradictions are all a part of who I am.”

“We have two very different jobs, Ella,
but what we try to accomplish is remarkably similar. You find order and grounding through law enforcement. I find it through my faith and my love for God. I’d be just as lost without my work as you’d be without yours.”

“Order…and faith. Do you think there’s really common ground there?” Ella asked.

“Yes, I do. Faith brings order…and a need for order is one of the many paths leading to faith.”

“I may not agree completely with you, Reverend, but I still like the way you think,” Ella answered, enjoying his gentle smile.

Ella drove west down the hill and across the mesa to Blalock’s office. The agent was on the phone as she walked in. He waved her to a seat and, a moment later, hung up. “I’ve got some interesting news for you, Ella. The quote left at our crime scene not only matches
the one found in L.A. fourteen years ago, it’s also identical to one left at a crime scene in Kayenta, Arizona. That murder took place only a year ago.”

“Three murders, one unique verse of Scripture. That’s no coincidence. Is there any thread that connects all three victims?” Ella asked quickly, hoping they hadn’t been randomly selected.

“They were all Navajo,” Blalock said.

“Were they all
Christian churchgoers?” Ella asked, playing a hunch. “And did they all live around here at one time?”

“It doesn’t say,” Blalock said.

“Then that’s the next thing we follow up on,” she said. “Maybe all three were members of one of the churches here,” she said, thinking of Valerie. “The church where Ford works was established less than ten years ago, so I don’t think his membership roster will
be of any immediate help. His congregation probably consists of new converts and people who used to attend elsewhere. But my father’s church has been around for thirty or more years. And there are others as well,” she added.

“We need to start checking those places out.”

“It’ll probably be easier to take a different route first. The churches will probably not want to give us access to their membership
lists. And, even if they did, they probably have regulars who’ve never become official members. I suggest we start by digging into the victims backgrounds and find out if they had a church in common. After that, we’ll have a better idea how to proceed.”

“Sounds good, but how do we do that?”

“We start with Jayne, Justine’s sister. The woman has a phenomenal memory, and knows just about everyone
in the Shiprock area. Are you game?”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

“Brewster has to remain at the top of our list,” Ella said as they went out to the parking lot. “But he doesn’t attend church anymore and doesn’t really fit the MO of a serial killer inclined to leave Bible passages behind. We’ve also yet to place him in two different states at the right times, or find a link between him and the other victims.”

“The case is young yet,” Blalock muttered.

They left in Ella’s borrowed, marked car, knowing that it would give them an edge when they approached people on the Rez. Blalock’s Bureau car was well known and Navajos tended to avoid him.

Ella tracked down Jayne via Justine and, shortly afterward, met with her partner’s older sister at her workplace, the new motel just inside the Rez borders. Jayne,
vivacious and charming as always, was working the front desk. Seeing Ella, she waved and called out from behind the counter.

“I need to talk to you,” Ella said, going over to meet her. “Can you leave the front desk for a minute?”

“Sure. I’ve been expecting you. ’Tine called a little while ago.” Jayne checked her watch. “It’s close to lunch. Are you guys hungry?”

Ella glanced at Blalock, who
nodded. “Yeah, but we really don’t have time for a sit-down lunch right now.” She looked toward the motel’s restaurant dining room just beyond a wide, open doorway. The tables were about half occupied at the moment with tourists, judging from the fact that the majority appeared to be Anglos with cameras.

“Not a problem. I like to eat with the kitchen staff anyway, so let’s go find the chef. His
specialty is Navajo tacos, and he can put yours in Styrofoam takeout containers.”

The thought of Navajo tacos was too much of a temptation on an empty stomach. Ella glanced at Blalock, who was almost pleading with his eyes. “You’ve got a deal.”

Jayne led them though an employees-only door and seated them on folding metal chairs at a stainless-steel table in the kitchen. Beside them was a tall
Rube Goldberg–type mixer that looked more like a post hole digger in a bowl. Within five minutes Jayne returned with three big Styrofoam containers and three sets of silverware wrapped in cloth napkins.

Inside each was a dinner plate–size piece of fry bread topped with a layer of pinto beans, lettuce, cheese, tomatoes, and salsa. “This looks great,” Ella said taking a bite. “My fry bread always
comes out looking like fried matzo. Just can’t seem to get it to swell up like this.”

Blalock nodded, his mouth full. “Clah, you gotta roll out the dough real thin, then make sure the oil is good and hot.”

“You cook, Dwayne?” Ella said, moving a loaded fork to her lips.”

“Live alone, love to eat. What can I say? But this food is way better than anything I can whip up,” Blalock added.

The three
ate for a few minutes, then Ella took the page containing the names of the three victims out of her pocket and slid it across the small table so Jayne could read it. “Sorry to get back to business, but do you happen to know any of these people?”

Jayne studied it for a moment as she ate. “Valerie, naturally. And I remember Dorothy Yabeny. Wait, are these other two women dead, too?”

Ella nodded.
“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I’m no traditionalist, so as long as none of the staff hear us, I don’t mind. About Dorothy. She’s…would have been about your age, Ella, give or take a year, but she went to Mission, not Shiprock High, because her mother wanted her to have a Christian education. They lived about halfway to Hogback. I lost a boyfriend to her the summer of our junior year. Wanted to scratch
her eyes out for a few weeks, but we made up. Then Dorothy moved to Kayenta a few years out of high school and I never heard from her after that. Phyllis Begay was three years older than me, but we hung out sometimes and were friends until she moved to L.A. She wanted to be an actress. We exchanged a few letters at first because she was homesick, but then we lost track of each other. That was fourteen
or fifteen years ago, at least.”

“Did she go to one of the local churches?” Ella asked.

“She went to church, but it was mostly for the social part of it. That way she could go out on Sundays and Wednesday nights even when she was grounded. She met a lot of boys that way, too, when churches from different towns had special youth rallies and retreats. Phyllis and I did some wild things together,
I remember.” Jayne laughed. “Her mother was different though, really devout. She’s buried in the church’s cemetery. I remember going to her house. There were so many crucifixes in there it was spooky,” she said and shuddered.

Ella understood. Even modernists weren’t immune to the teachings they’d lived with all their lives. Navajo beliefs held that death was a subject best avoided. To have something
inside a home that depicted a death, showed the body, and commemorated someone who’d risen from the dead seemed just plain dangerous.

“Do you remember which church they belonged to?”

Jayne looked at her in surprise. “Your father’s, of course, the Divine Word. I guess you don’t remember because you stopped going when you were young, but your dad was really popular back then—for a preacher. If
you were Navajo and wanted to convert, or you were unhappy with your own church, that’s where you ended up. Your father was a force to be reckoned with,” Jayne said, then added, “That should tell you how strong a woman your mom is, because she never converted. She remained a traditionalist.”

“She’s a force all on her own,” Ella agreed. The news that the victims had all been associated with her
father’s church wasn’t unexpected because it had been
the
Protestant church in the community for many years. But it wasn’t welcome news. Ella had too many memories of the Divine Word, and only a few of them were pleasant. It had been years since she’d stepped foot in that church.

Finishing lunch quickly, Blalock and Ella said good-bye to Jayne and went back outside. “I saw your reaction when
she mentioned your father’s church, Clah. You want me to handle that part on my own?”

“No, but it’s only fair to give you a heads-up. I’m not sure how we’ll be greeted there. There’s another Navajo minister there now, Reverend Leroy Curtis, and I heard he doesn’t appreciate my family’s adherence to traditional Navajo beliefs.”

“If Curtis drags his feet, we can always threaten to subpoena their
records,” Blalock said.

“That may not get us the results we want. And, if word gets out we pressured a minister, you can count on a backlash that’ll go all the way back to the Bureau. Let’s play nice, at least at first. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll let us have a look at the old records.”

They drove west down the main highway, over the river, then northeast. Her father’s old church stood about
halfway between the river and the highway, atop a weathered mesa. She’d always hated the view from there, but not nearly as much as the constant pressure she’d been under during her teens to attend services.

For her, that place would always echo with memories of being torn between her mother’s and her father’s beliefs, the people she’d loved most, and of feeling like she’d never belong anywhere.
Of course the end result had been that she’d rejected everything, married as soon as she got out of high school, then moved away.

Ella set all those memories aside and concentrated on what they were here to do. As she pulled up in front of the main church building, partially remodeled into a stylized hogan, a distinguished-looking Navajo man in his late thirties and wearing a white shirt and
tie came out.

“Is that Reverend Curtis? And how the heck did he know to expect us?” Blalock asked Ella. “Did he get a sign?”

Ella groaned. Obviously, Blalock was trying to lighten up the moment just a little. “From his office he can see us coming up the road. Maybe he’s just affording us the courtesy of coming out to meet us—Navajo style.”

Ella got out first and approached the reverend. He
knew who she was. They’d met years ago during some public event.

Blalock, a few steps behind, introduced himself and displayed his ID. The Navajo cleric didn’t offer to shake hands with him and, Blalock, used to tribal ways, hadn’t expected it.

“I’m Reverend Leroy Curtis,” he said for Blalock’s benefit. “Would you two like to come inside? We can sit down in my office and talk comfortably there.”

Ella stiffened. The last place she wanted to see again was her father’s old office, no matter who was sitting behind the desk.

Blalock accepted before she had a chance to reply, and Ella followed them in, aware of how little had actually changed on the inside over the years. The walls were still stark white and simple wooden crucifixes hung over each doorway. She suppressed a shudder as Reverend
Curtis stopped at the familiar door, with the old, hand-carved wooden sign—
PASTOR
—and waved them in.

“I believe this was your father’s office at one time, Inspector Clah,” he said casually.

Ella nodded, trying to push back the uneasiness that gripped her and grateful that at least the furniture and personal mementos on the walls were different.

“So tell me, what can I do for you two officers?”
he asked, taking a seat behind the desk.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Ella said, her voice steadier than she felt in these still familiar surroundings. Handing him the list of the three murder victims, she added, “Were any of these women members of this church, going back maybe fourteen or fifteen years?”