Never-ending-snake (44 page)

“What are you hoping to find?” Justine asked, sitting at her computer.

“A reason for Abigail’s interest in the Lonewolf family. She’s never been a people person unless there was a power or profit issue involved.”

A few minutes later,
Justine logged on to Norm’s Web site. They found nothing of particular importance there, nor at the Web site for the television station where Norm worked. Then they followed the link at the bottom to Norm’s home page and found his blog.

“This is bad news,” Justine said. “Hattery’s checked out all the funeral homes in the area and knows no one has
processed Adam’s body for burial or cremation.
Since the family’s nowhere to be found, he’s suggesting that there’s more to Adam’s alleged death than the department has said.”

“Check out the quote marks around the word ‘death,’ not to mention his use of the word ‘alleged,’” Ella added. “Now we know why Abigail was calling you. She’s using that memorial service angle to try and figure out if Adam’s still alive. You wouldn’t pay to honor a
dead guy you
knew
was alive.”

“In that case, I blew it,” Justine said. “But we’ve got a bigger problem. If the one who hired O’Riley and Perry gets wind of this, he’s bound to start looking for Adam all over again—that is, if Adam was ever really the target.”

“Blalock’s going to need to alert the people at the base,” Ella said, picking up her phone.

The agent answered on the first ring. “I’ve
been keeping an eye on Hattery’s blog, so I’ve handled that already,” he said.

After she hung up, Ella continued staring at the phone, lost in thought. “Why is Abigail still so interested in Adam’s real status?” she asked at last. “The Prickly Weed Project is back on track and her investments are looking up again. So what are we missing?”

“Maybe you’re complicating the issue too much. Abigail
likes knowing what’s going on because it makes her feel more in control.”

“I have a feeling there’s more to it than that. The woman never does anything without a specific reason—and she’s got a lot of money invested that could disappear if everything did go south.” Ella stared at the wall, thoughts racing. “Let’s go talk to Teeny. He has his ear to the ground and has access to all kinds of information.”

They were inside Teeny’s warehouse east of Shiprock twenty minutes later. Teeny had just handed Ella a plate of homemade fudge. “Eat. It’s quick energy and you both look like you could use some of that.”

Ella, who felt totally worn out, took a small bite then . . . heaven. “These are
wonderful
.”

“It’s my own recipe. I use fresh cream, cream cheese, and walnuts in addition to the usual ingredients.
When I’m dragging but I need to keep going, it’s the perfect cure.”

Ella took a second one while Justine was still eating her first. It was too bad that Teeny didn’t give out his recipes. She would have loved to have this one.

“Grab a bigger handful of those, and take them with you. You, too, Justine.”

He didn’t have to ask them twice. “Thanks,” Ella replied.

Justine, her mouth full, just
nodded.

“Now tell me what I can do for you law ladies.”

“Something weird’s playing out with Abigail Yellowhair. Is there anything you can get me that might explain it?” Ella asked him.

He swiveled his chair around until he faced the computer screen, and began typing. “I drove past the turnoff to her new place yesterday on my way to Beclabito to meet a client. Did you know she’s got two garden
patches set aside for prickly weed? She told one of her neighbors that she’s a consultant on the project.”

“That I know. My mother’s doing the same thing. She’s got an entire field in back of the house where she’s growing row upon row of that blasted weed.”

Teeny focused on the screen, typed a few strokes, then glanced back at her. “I recently had reason to take a closer look at Abigail’s finances.
She’d been trying to convince a client of mine to invest in a wholesale jewelry operation of hers and he wanted to know the state of her finances.”

“And?” Ella pressed.

“In spite of her big reputation, Abigail’s barely solvent. Her previous business venture, the satellite phone deal that was supposedly going to make a fortune, sank without a trace after the tribe dropped out. Now she’s got a
quarter mil
invested in the Prickly Weed project, basically the balance of her fluid assets. Since she sold her cabin in Colorado last week for about fifty percent of its appraised value—a huge loss on paper—my guess is that she’s having severe cash flow problems.”

“I knew that she’d sold the family home and moved into that smaller place, but I thought she was just trying to leave old memories
behind,” Justine said. “She’s in a lot deeper than I realized.”

Still checking his computer, Teeny glanced at Ella, and added, “The deal on her Colorado home closed last Saturday, the day before you got back from D.C.”

Ella was still considering the possibilities when her cell phone rang. It was Sheriff Taylor.

“We’ve got a possible twenty on Shawn O’Riley,” he said. “We’ve had an ATL on him
ever since that incident outside Bloomfield and it looks like it finally paid off.”

The successful “attempt to locate” was music to her ears. “Where’s he at?” Ella asked.

“According to my deputy, who made the ID at a gas station, the suspect’s traveling west out of Farmington on 64 in a dark brown pickup, old model, maybe 1990 Ford. He seems to be taking his time, staying well under the speed
limit to avoid gathering any attention.”

“Good. Have your officer stay on him, but give him plenty of room. We’re on our way.”

“Done. My officer’s a detective in an unmarked vehicle. That should help.”

Ella and Justine had reached the main highway and were racing east when Ella’s cell phone rang again. It was Big Ed.

“Dispatch just got an anonymous call advising us that Shawn O’Riley’s en
route to a bar called C. O. Jones located outside of Kirtland,” Big Ed clipped.

“Was the caller male or female?” Ella asked.

“Dispatch couldn’t confirm either way. The call was grainy and the number was restricted. It’s out of our jurisdiction, so Sheriff Taylor’s been notified, but I want you and Justine there, just in case.”

“Taylor’s got a detective tailing O’Riley as we speak,” Ella said.
“My partner and I are already on our way.”

Ella updated Justine as they raced down the highway.

“I’ve heard of that place, and it’s not exactly a family establishment. They serve truck drivers and oil field workers, mostly,” Justine said. “It’s aptly named for the crowd it attracts.”

“Is C. O. Jones someone I should know?” Ella asked.

“If you put it all together, it spells
cojones
, ‘balls’
in Spanish.”

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Ella muttered, calling Sheriff Taylor for an update.

“Your suspect just turned south off 64 onto the old highway leading into Kirtland. If he’s headed for that C. O. Jones place, he’ll have to turn north again in a few miles. There’s some road work that’ll slow him down, so his ETA at the tavern is ten minutes, give or take,” he said.

“We can beat that time and get into position,” she said.

“I’ll be there ASAP, maybe twenty. I’m in an unmarked.”

As they raced east down 64 along the northern perimeter of Waterflow, Ella felt her body tense. Slow, painstaking investigations intermingled with moments of sheer adrenaline made her job unique. What made her especially good at it was her ability to stay focused both during the slow
times and when everything exploded into total chaos.

As they approached the establishment, represented by the image of a long-legged, winking cowboy, Ella quickly surveyed the parking lot, then contacted Sheriff Taylor and verified O’Riley’s ETA.

“He’s turned north and is coming up that street,” Ella told Justine seconds later and pointed to a residential road that intersected Highway 64 at
a stop sign just to the west.
“We only have a few minutes. Park around the back on the east side.”

As they drove around the front of the building, which faced north, Ella recognized Begaye’s late model luxury sedan parked near the entrance. What cinched the ID was the word Emerson Lee had scratched on the driver’s side door. It had been painted over, but the rush job hadn’t cured enough yet to
completely conceal the damage.

“Could be a meeting—or a hit. Either Alfred is the next target or he’s the one who’s been pulling all the strings. How do you want to play this?” Justine asked, choosing a parking space that gave them a view of the entrance and Begaye’s vehicle.

“Go in, locate Alfred, but don’t make eye contact. If he sees you, ignore him and come back out. If he doesn’t, stay
on him. I’ll watch for O’Riley. Backup’s on the way, but be ready to use your weapon at any time. O’Riley likes to shoot people.”

“Gotcha, boss.” Justine stepped out of the vehicle, and, using the side door, went inside.

Ella climbed out next and looked around. Although there were more customers there than either of them had expected this time of day, the dinner crowd hadn’t arrived yet.

Ella
walked to a big Dodge pickup parked closer to the entrance and watched over the hood, across the lot toward the west. The sun was low in the sky now, but with her sunglasses on, it wasn’t too bad. In another half hour, all she would have been able to see was a blurry silhouette backed by blazing heat.

A few minutes went by before Ella finally saw O’Riley’s Ford pickup approach the stop sign.
When the truck turned in her direction, she stepped back into the Dodge’s shadow. Hopefully its owner wouldn’t come out anytime soon and wonder what she was doing.

The pickup was slowing to make the turn when Alfred
came out of the bar, saw O’Riley’s vehicle, and stopped on the sidewalk, apparently waiting. Justine stayed inside, pretending to be buying a newspaper from a vending machine but
in position to watch through the glass panels of the foyer.

Ella, pistol in hand, made sure she was blocked by the rear roof pillars of the pickup’s cab, then took a quick look to the west, wondering how close the deputy was following.

Instead of pulling into one of the parking slots, O’Riley wheeled his pickup sharply, facing east, then stopped behind Alfred’s car, blocking it.

Leaving the
truck running, O’Riley stepped out and came around to the front of his vehicle as Alfred walked over to him. O’Riley had his right hand inside his jacket, and from her angle, Ella could see the semi-auto jammed into his waistband. His shirt was also bulky underneath—he was wearing a vest.

“Where’s the money?” O’Riley said, looking around slowly.

Ella froze, knowing any movement might reveal
her presence.

“Here,” Alfred brought an envelope out of his inside suit jacket pocket. “Take it and go. People know who I am.”

“Hand it over and I’m out of here.”

Alfred took two more steps forward, and handed O’Riley the envelope. Without checking, O’Riley shoved it into his own jacket pocket.

“You
sure
you weren’t followed?” O’Riley asked.

“No way. I’m alone.”

O’Riley looked to the west,
then, as he turned to check the road east, a shiny black-and-white state police unit with a big gold badge on the door turned off the highway into the parking lot, heading right toward the empty slot next to Begaye’s car.

O’Riley turned his back to the cop and drew his pistol.

“You bastard,” O’Riley yelled, shooting Alfred at point-blank range.

Too late to save Begaye, Ella fired two shots at O’Riley’s head. He jerked once, then collapsed in a heap just as Justine rushed out the tavern’s entrance in a crouch, pistol in hand.

The state patrolman whipped his unit around in a cloud of dust, then slid to a stop. As he dove out his
door, using the cruiser as cover, Ella stepped into full view.

“Hold your fire!” she yelled, grabbing her badge off her belt and holding it high over her head. “We’re tribal police officers!”

Seeing the big muzzle of the state patrolman’s twelve-gauge shotgun over the hood of his vehicle, Ella placed her own weapon on the ground, then stood still, badge still up in the air.

Justine followed
suit, laying down her weapon, then holding up her badge as she rose to a standing position.

“I’m Investigator Clah of the Navajo Tribal Police,” Ella called out. “That’s Officer Goodluck. Two suspects are down, and we need to get the EMTs here fast.”

The black-and-gray uniformed state police officer came
out from behind his cruiser slowly, weapon waving back and forth between them. As he took
a step forward, the deputy in the unmarked car pulled into the lot, emergency lights flashing.

A second unmarked cruiser, flashing light on the dashboard, wheeled into the lot, adding to the confusion. Sheriff Taylor, in his dark county uniform, stepped from that unit and identified himself. As the state patrolman lowered his weapon, Justine retrieved her weapon then ran over to Begaye, who was
face down on the asphalt.

Taylor glanced at the gunshot victims, then strode over to meet Ella. “I saw the state police unit at the last minute, but there was no way to call him off in time.”