Read Death Along the Spirit Road Online
Authors: C. M. Wendelboe
Death Along the Spirit Road (20 page)
“Once he moved into the tribe’s house, I spent nearly every day with him. Except for a couple days he was gone, and that business trip to Minneapolis for a weekend, we spent every day together. A project of this size takes a lot of work, and we couldn’t afford to be slackers, even for a day. But an affair? No way.”
Manny selected the raspberry vinaigrette from the three small cruets the waitress had brought. He read the label and put a little on his finger before replacing the cap. He grabbed the ranch dressing: too many calories and too much fat. He returned that bottle and went back to the raspberry, trickling some over his salad. Perhaps Erica was being truthful and knew nothing about Jason’s scheme to bilk the tribe of their money. Still, there was the argument Henry Lone Wolf overheard.
“Someone overheard you and Jason arguing a week before he was murdered.”
Erica took the dressing from Manny, and matched his look while she dribbled dressing on her own greens. “I found out Jason intended stealing the tribe’s money. He said he was going to invest it in a winter resort project in Jackson Hole, said that would keep his head above water long enough for him to make good on the Pine Ridge resort.”
“Witnesses say you threatened to tell Jon it was over. That sounds like you were going to come clean on an affair.”
Now Erica laughed, either out of nervousness or relief, Manny couldn’t tell. “I threatened to tell Jon that Jason intended to embezzle the tribe’s money. I told Jason I would work up the case myself and take it to the U.S. Attorney for prosecution. When he heard that, he exploded—that damned temper of his. He grabbed me. Violently. I never saw him that mad before. He was always so …”
“Charming? That’s how most people who didn’t know him well described their meeting with Jason. Except he was about as charming as a carbuncle.”
“Exactly!” she said. She put her fork down midbite and leaned closer. “He was charming. So much that it surprised me when he grabbed me. It frightened the wits out of me. He looked capable of killing anyone who got in his way, and I was in his way. So when he finally let me go, I told him I would give him the chance to do the right thing. I told him to go through with the project, that he didn’t have to steal the tribe’s money. He promised me he would, and we planned on the ground breaking the day he was killed.”
Manny was sorry he had to ask her those painful but necessary questions. “Jason’s ‘charm’ sold the tribe on the project. The last one you should blame is yourself. You were so committed, you knew the project just had to succeed.”
Erica looked up from her salad and straightened in her seat. “I suppose you’re right, but it doesn’t make it any less painful. That’s my home, my people he was about to sell out. And I was part of it.”
“It was his home, too, long ago,” Manny reminded her. “Did you tell anyone else about the embezzlement?”
“Just Mom. I tell her everything. And she’s the tribe’s finance officer; she needed to know what was coming down. She needed to stay on top of things in case any tribal members needed updates. Besides, she heard Jason and I had a huge argument and asked about it.”
Manny nodded. He was content to spend the next hour in the company of his niece, charming in her own right. They discussed the state of the Pine Ridge and Rosebud reservations in the wake of the recent tribal court shake-ups. They talked about the positive things developing there since she’d returned to the area. They talked about the local economy, how the tribe was attracting new businesses, and how Russell Means might change that if he were elected tribal president. They talked about all these things, but one thing Erica never once asked about was Reuben and how he was doing. Perhaps she had finally forgotten her father.
Why was Manny fighting the urge to ask Erica how she was able to put her past, her pain, her father behind her and get on with her life, even coming back to the reservation? Maybe her answer would help him bury his past, but she had enough troubles of her own right now. So, he ate and enjoyed the company of his niece for the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER 11
“I know the crazy coot’ll be there,” Willie insisted. He turned onto the road leading to Crazy George He Crow’s secluded fiveacre lot. “You think this ties in with Jason?”
“Remember what I said,” Manny cautioned. He fingered his empty pocket for the pack of Camels. “Whatever we find will be just one more brick in building our case, nothing more. Certainly no smoking gun. It would be a hell of a coincidence, though, and I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Manny recalled the lightbulb coming on last night when he returned to Pine Ridge from Rapid City. He’d marked down the mileage in his government-issue log book, as policy dictated. Give or take, the trip odometer of the rental showed two hundred and fifty miles. Just about the same mileage Crazy George said someone put on his car before they returned it. What if someone made a round trip to Rapid City with George’s car?
“And what if it had been stolen? I’ll guess I’ll look like the ass.”
Manny smiled. “You and every tribal cop that doesn’t take Crazy George seriously, but don’t worry. Every agency has a chronic bitcher that all the cops ignore. Just be grateful if this pans out.”
“I should have spent more time on Crazy George’s complaint. Bet you didn’t screw up this bad when you worked here.”
Manny laughed. “You have Crazy George. We had Helen Afraid of Horses. And afraid of everything else in this world. She complained once that her neighbor’s cows ate so loud it kept her awake, and once that a passing train caused her to grow plantar warts on her feet.”
“We don’t have trains here.”
“That’s what we told her. Then one evening she called, convinced that the Soviets were conducting weather modification right above her house as she spoke, that they’d conjured up a tornado that was headed straight for her. Our whole shift cracked up laughing when that call came in to dispatch. That is, until we started getting calls from the National Weather Service that a twister had touched down west of Kyle. When Lumpy and I raced to Helen’s house, we found her shack scattered over the prairie for a hundred yards in either direction. But no Helen.”
“Where did they find her?”
“Never did. Sometimes I look up expecting the crazy old bat to drop out of some wall cloud. Perhaps she just clicked her heels and returned to Kansas with Toto.”
Willie laughed as they neared Crazy George’s trailer, which sat at the edge of a treeless prairie, a single-wide made in the 1960s, early 1970s at the latest. One side had been repaired with free-for-the-taking railroad ties, blocking out any windows that might have been there. There was no propane tank, but firewood stood stacked by the door, and duct tape covered two broken windows.
The poor bastard must knock icicles off his ass every winter trying to heat that shack.
The poor bastard must knock icicles off his ass every winter trying to heat that shack.
Crazy George hunkered down drawing in the dirt with a long stick. When he saw the police car, he grabbed the corral fence and stood.
Manny took in a quick, short breath. George wore a plaid dress that stopped just above his knees, and he teetered on high heels several sizes too small. His hairy legs exposed below the dress made him look like he was wearing a pair of woolly chaps. He used the stick for balance as he picked his way toward the road in his elevated shoes.
“He fancies himself a
berdache
.” When Manny’s look failed to register comprehension, Willie explained. “A cross-dresser. The old ones used that term to refer to men who were dressed like women and took on female roles. George thinks he’s the last of the
berdache
cult.”
berdache
.” When Manny’s look failed to register comprehension, Willie explained. “A cross-dresser. The old ones used that term to refer to men who were dressed like women and took on female roles. George thinks he’s the last of the
berdache
cult.”
“I’d rather be remembered as the last of something else besides a cross-dresser, especially if I was as ugly looking as he is in that getup.”
George bypassed Willie and stopped in front of Manny, pausing to smooth his dress before he spoke. “Who’re you? You’re too damned old to be a tribal cop.” Crazy George held a stump of cigar between fingers stained dark yellow.
“I’m Senior Special Agent Tanno. FBI.”
George tilted his head back and cackled while he looked sideways with the whites of his eyes showing. Manny understood why people called him “Crazy George.”
“Since when does the FBI give a damn about an old man’s car?” He stepped close enough to Manny that the stench of his sweat permeated the air between them. “Don’t you guys usually investigate bombings? Threats to the president. Fake money. Crap like that?”
“Your car may have been involved in a murder.”
“A murder! Hot damn!” Crazy George slapped his leg, and a wide smile spread across his cratered face. “I told young With Horn here that my car was stole, but he figured it weren’t. He figured that old Crazy George just reported one more crazy thing. Didn’t you?”
Willie looked away.
“I wasn’t here the other day, Mr. He Crow, when—”
“Crazy George. Everyone calls me Crazy George ’cause I see a lot. And report a lot to these yokels.” He jerked his finger at Willie. “Not that it does any good.”
“Let me see your car.”
Crazy George’s skirt fluttered as he sashayed around to the far side of his shed. As they neared the corral, a roan mare nickered. She hung her head over the top of the corral and pushed against the rickety boards that bowed with her weight. She plowed the ground with one hoof, and her teeth snapped as she stretched to reach Manny.
The mare’s eyes followed his as she looked sideways at him, much like Crazy George did a moment ago, and Manny knew she would stomp him if she could. Unc had taught him some things about horses, and his inveterate Lakota knowledge filled in the rest. He had not been close to a horse in years, yet he knew this one would kill him if she had the chance.
He often got close to the mounted police horses in D.C., felt the need to stroke the animals’ withers, to somehow communicate with them. But then he’d always had a way with animals. He rubbed the stitches in his hand.
All right, except for the dog that bit me the other night and this loony horse, I have a way with critters.
All right, except for the dog that bit me the other night and this loony horse, I have a way with critters.
“Don’t mind Clementine.” George stepped to the corral and cradled the horse’s head in his arms. “As long as you’re on this side of the fence, you’re safe.”
George led them past the corral to a barn with one side caved in from age. The collapsed roof listed dangerously far to one side, threatening to fall over. On the far side of the barn, George pointed to his old Buick. “I don’t drive this here car much, but I do keep it running good. When I do got to use it, I know it won’t leave me stranded along the side of the road in the middle of a blizzard.”
Except for one faded brown fender, and one door still in primer, the Buick’s sky blue color showed shiny beneath a layer of fine dust. Manny walked around the car. Tiny rubber flecks still stuck out of the sidewalls. “New rubber.”
“Guess I missed that the other day,” Willie said from somewhere behind them.
“No harm.” Manny was certain Willie wouldn’t make the same error again.
“What’s that you say?” Crazy George blurted out. “No harm! The thief—the killer—has two days’ head start on you. How are you ever going to find him?”
Manny ignored him and walked around the car again before opening the driver’s-side door. Keys dangled from the ignition switch. “You always leave your keys in the ignition?”
“Of course. No one would ever steal a beater like this.”
“Until a few nights ago.” Manny bent and peered inside. The seat was too far forward for Crazy George, who towered over Manny and had a protruding belly several inches bigger than his. If George drove it, he would need the seat back farther than it was. “You drive with the seat that close?”
“Hell, no. That’s what I tried telling young With Horn the other day, but he looked at me like a cow looking at a new gate.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Manny caught Willie writing in his pocket notebook, taking for gospel everything George said now.
“So the driver was a lot shorter than Crazy George,” Willie announced.
“Not necessarily,” Manny said. He stood up, and his knees crackled and popped. “It might have been someone shrewd enough to know that seat position is something we’d look for. Could have been a taller person who just moved the seat up when they brought it back.”
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