Indian Country Noir Read online

  "Then now is the best time to start." She stabs a finger at the watch. Not needing to say anything, the chronometer dial winding down.

  "Even if I can create the legend, I can't get the documents to you down here."

  "Not here," she says. "Tucson airport. And the credit cards have to be good enough to get me a ticket on any airline connecting to Chicago. And you'll have to use all your skills to make it look like the tickets were purchased weeks ago. That's it, okay?"

  She dismisses me, moves inside the house. Dial sits on a rusted wrought-iron chair, pistol in his lap. Rey slumps in another chair, refusing to look at me. I have to test my chances, have to know if I have an edge. I go to him, kneel and put my hands on his face, turning his eyes to mine.

  "Rey," I say. "How did you get into this dirty business?"

  "Don't play me, Laura. No way can I help you."

  Dial finishes a Sonoran hot dog, smacks his lips. When I look at him, he blows me a kiss. In that moment, I get busy. Open my carryall, take out my gear, boot up my laptop, turn on my ComSat phone, and get online.

  "Lovitta," I say. I've dialed her private number. "Lovitta. Wake up.

  Lovitta Kovich groans. "Laura?" Lovitta is a sergeant with the Tucson narcotics department, my inside source, my treasured coordinator of drug dealer information.

  "Yes."

  "Where are, what are you doing?" Groggy. "I've been working twenty hours. What?"

  "Hello," I say carefully. "How are you? Have you arrived safely."

  "Arrived ... ah, oh yeah. Laura. Still sending pretty little pics?"

  "To everyone I know in my postcard perfect world." The most basic of voice codes, an agreed-on exchange to indicate urgency.

  "Where are you?"

  "I can't tell you that."

  "How can I help?"

  "I need a legend."

  "How quick?"

  "Six hours."

  "Impossible."

  "Six hours," I repeat.

  "What kind of documents?"

  "Everything. SSN card. Driver's license. At least three working credit cards, each with a purchase and payment legend. Medical records, if you can do that. Miscellaneous stuff. Safeway card, whatever."

  "Passport?"

  "No."

  "Well, that saves time. Not impossible. But improbable."

  "Who've you got?"

  "Larry Marshall. Mary Emich. Alex Emerine. Mary can Photoshop the documents, Larry can coordinate sources for printing, he knows a nonprofit that will let him use a flatbed press and special inks. Alex can set up computer legends for bank accounts, credit, hospitals. She knows just where to hack into records, add a new identity. But. You've got to get a name. A legend is no good without the right name."

  "I'll have that in an hour," I say. "You get them set up, wait for my call."

  Disconnecting the cell, I sit in front of my laptop. Small, sudden nods of my head as I think through each step. I start typing.

  "What are you doing?" Rey asks.

  Opening a web browser, I call up a website, begin typing in physical and age characteristics. Rey watches over my shoulder as a series of photo images scrolls down the screen.

  "Jane ... JaneJohnDoe dot com?" he says. "What kind of website is that?"

  "People who disappeared."

  "What help is that?"

  "I don't have time to buy a name. Usually that would take days. Weeks for something really specific. This is a national database of people who've disappeared-men, women, and children who've vanished from their jobs, their homes, their loved ones."

  "I don't get it."

  "We're looking for women who disappeared five to ten years ago. Once I get those compiled, I'll search the photos for a face that resembles Talancon. When I find that, I'll crosscheck the name of the missing person with other databases to get a Social Security number. And then anything is possible."

  "How many people are in here?"

  "Lots. Probably three to five thousand. And that's just people who've disappeared. There are hundreds more who are dead but unidentified. Rey, stop asking me questions. Leave me alone."

  "I just want to help."

  "You have nothing to offer me. Not anymore. You," I say to Dial, "get your boss out here. I need to ask her something."

  Talancon appears in the doorway, stripped to bra and panties, a bath towel over her shoulder, her hair already cut very short. Dial stands, pulls out his Glock as though there's been a prearranged signal.

  "Kill me now," I say, "you get nothing."

  "Are you afraid of Diablo?" Her smiling face caught in a sudden, cold light from the sun. I see she wears no makeup, small beads of sweat form on her upper lip, her pupils dilate, and then a flatness comes into her eyes. "Okay, there's nothing left. Diablo, give me your gun."

  Dial hands over the Glock. Talancon thumbs back the slide, checking that a live round is chambered. She has an odd way of holding the Glock; her middle finger is on the trigger, and without hesitation she targets Dial.

  "Pela las nalgas, puta," he says bitterly as she cranks a double-tap to his chest, striding quickly to stand over his twitching body to put another round directly into his forehead.

  "Jesus Christ!" Rey gasps, hands out in front, thinking he's next.

  "Not you, loverboy. You're intocable. Untouchable, so far. Anything else?" she says to me. I shake my head, ears ringing from the gunshots. Talanc6n tosses the weapon to Rey. "Drag him inside." She turns to me with a look and shrugs. "Vama- nos, senora! Ahorita!"

  Get busy. Now!

  And I'm wondering what seed she sprang from, what made this bitter fruit.

  Fifty minutes later I have a name, ten minutes after that I get the information I really want when I call Lovitta to get data from NCIC, the national crime database.

  "Judith Dunnigan Fletcher," I shout at the house. Talanc6n comes to the doorway, pressing her hands up against the inside of the door sill and taking three long, deep breaths.

  "Okay," she says. "You have a picture?"

  I swivel my laptop so she can see the screen. She studies the photograph of a woman with short-cropped graying hair, an open-necked button-down shirt, and tortoise-shell glasses.

  "Tell me about her."

  "Judith Dunnigan Fletcher. Missing since July 3, 1997. Thirty-six years old then, makes her mid-forties now. Missing from Omaha, Nebraska. At time of disappearance, five-one, 105 pounds. White woman, but she looks a bit Latina. Graying hair, some brown left, brown eyes. No tattoos, no scars, no birthmarks. No nickname, not married at time of disappearance, no children, both parents deceased, no siblings. If seen, notify the Omaha Police Department. She's perfect."

  "Let me see," Talancon says, flicking her fingers on the keyboard, scrolling up and down, reading and rereading the information, finally clicking on the picture to enlarge the image. "There's gray hair dye inside." She suddenly frowns. "Why does it say to contact Omaha PD?"

  "She's been missing for years. It's routine with missing people." She nods. "I'll get my people on it. Except ..."

  "Yes?"

  "If I deliver this, how do I know I'm safe?"

  "Safe?" she says. "You mean, that you'll stay alive?"

  "Yes."

  "There are suitcases inside the house." Not answering my question. "We'll stuff them with clothes; when we get to Tucson, we'll go to an all-night drugstore, buy bathroom things, whatever else is handy. We'll buy carry-on bags, at the airport we'll get newspapers, everything normal. Then all three of its will buy coach tickets and check the luggage. "

  "First things first," I say.

  "Now what?"

  "I want to call the Sedona sheriff's department. I want officers to protect my family. You won't do this for me, I do nothing for you."

  "Call them," she orders Rey, then stands six inches from my face. "Okay. I give you the guarantee. Don't push on me anymore, senora. Now get busy."

  Her Rolex chronometer reads just under four hours. I call Lovitta, direct her to the website JaneJohnDo
e.com, and give her the name I've chosen.

  "You've got three hours plus," I say. "Then all the documents have to be at the Tucson airport. You know me, Lovitta. Serious I seldom get. So now I say to you ..."

  Another of our message codes. My heart pounding while she works it through until she suddenly gasps.

  "Ah," she says. "Don't worry. Tag, you're it."

  Less than three hours later, Rey slings four suitcases into the backseat of the Ford pickup and starts the engine. I'm sandwiched between him and the remodeled Talancon. Hair shorter and grayer, Talancon wears a yellow sundress, a light cotton shawl across her bare neck and shoulders, an iPod hanging around her neck.

  We drive north, few cars on the road, but the Mexican produce trucks already headed up from Nogales. Predawn light on the desert, the sun rising past mountains to the east. Behind my right shoulder, loose gray clouds, the promise of an early monsoon coming up from Mexico. We drive in silence to Valencia Road, turn east, and ten minutes later leave the pickup in the short-term parking lot.

  Inside the terminal, Talancon quickly scans the departure boards and heads its to the American Airlines ticket counter. No problems picking up a waiting envelope containing her documents and three round-trip tickets to Chicago, no problems collecting our boarding passes. A quick trip inside the airport store for carry-on bags, mixed nuts, two newspapers, the latest People and Newsweek magazines, and some beef jerky. At security, we all take off our shoes, drop everything in the X-ray buckets.

  "Boarding pass, please," the TSA man says to Talancon.

  "Sure," she replies with a smile.

  Through the checkpoint, moving toward the departure gate, twenty-seven minutes to boarding time. We buy water, then Talancon points at three seats in the waiting area amidst other passengers, mostly seniors, all sitting as far away as they can from a mother and baby.

  "Oh, come on," I complain. "I've got a fierce headache. This tension, this, all of this, it's just, I feel sick. Let's sit over there, away from that squalling baby."

  "Sure," Talanc6n says. "Why not?"

  I move slowly, hands massaging my temples as I drop into a seat facing away from the security checkpoint. Talancon hesitates, then sits beside me and motions Rey to sit across from us. I crack the seal on my water bottle, drink from the nipple, then unscrew it and drink half the bottle.

  "The list," I say.

  "I'll give it to you in Chicago."

  "Now," I say as lightly as I can against my tension. "I just need to see it."

  She snaps open her handbag, passes four pages to me, handwritten on legal paper. I make a rough count. Well over a hundred major meth dealers, all across the state, twentyseven on the Navajo rez alone.

  Rey's eyes suddenly open wide at something behind me and I drop my water bottle, liquid spilling across my lap and onto Talancon's shoes. Snorting angrily, she bends over to brush off the water and I leap out of the seat and run sideways. Talancon's quick to react, half rising to chase me before a green-uniformed Border Patrol guard raps a handgun against her head. Talanc6n staggers before two other BP guards batter her to the floor and handcuff her.

  "You've made a bad mistake," Talancon says to me in a hiss.

  "I'm your biggest mistake," I shoot back.

  She doesn't know what I'm talking about.

  "You don't know computers," I say. "You knew what to ask for, but you didn't know why I chose that legend." She shakes her head rapidly, trying to clear the fog, her eyes alert, halfnarrowed, menacing. "Judith Dunnigan Fletcher. You didn't ask me why she disappeared."

  Talancon is very, very puzzled, suddenly very, very afraid.

  "She murdered her entire family. Embezzled several hundred thousand dollars from her corporation. And just disappeared."

  "Where is she now?" Talancon croaks.

  "Right here," I say, inches from her face. I rip out her wallet, open it to her brand-new, platinum-grade driver's license with her photo and new name. "And here's your new U.S. passport. Judith Dunnigan Fletcher. Plano, Texas."

  "I'm not her," she protests. A strong surge of passengers floods by, exiting an American gate. She bolts to her feet, shrugging off deputies, tries to run and blend with the passengers.

  Two suited men block her way, grasp at her arms, fighting to contain her manic energy while holding her subdued.

  "Meet Jackson Caller, U.S. Marshal," I say. "Here to take you to Texas where you'll quickly be tried for murder."

  "I'm a Mexican national," she announces boldly. Still a tigress. "I can prove that in any court. The documents are fake."

  "Meet Jack Bob Deeter, U.S. State Department," I say. "He'll verify that your U.S. passport is absolutely, entirely authentic. These aren't counterfeit IDs. I arranged for real paper."

  "You arrogant whore," she hisses. "You've killed me."

  "You threatened my daughter," I say. "My daughter. She's my life-you threatened my life. No longer. No more. We're done."

  "When I'm free," she shouts back over her shoulder, "when I prove who I really am, I'll come for you!"

  I figure I've got at least a year before she beats our legal system. By then, I'll be lost myself, adrift on the Navajo rez with a new name and a new life.

  Ashland, Montana

  ame Elk awoke suddenly. He knew he had been dreaming. Now he tried to catch the dream before it disappeared down the dark hole dreams escape to when you're not fast enough to catch them. For a few moments he almost had it. Then it was gone.

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and the bilious taste told him he was going to be sick. He rolled off the cot onto the cement floor. Propped on his hands and knees in the darkness, he retched, the dry heaves tightening his abdomen like a fist. Gasping for breath, he fell onto his side, then pushed himself into a sitting position. Assaulted by the stink of his vomit-encrusted clothes, he forced himself to breathe through his mouth even though it made the dryness worse.

  A metal gate screeched and the corridor outside his cell was flooded with light. Lame Elk blinked at the knife thrust of light that penetrated his skull. At least now he could see where he was. Staggering to his feet, he filled the plastic cup on the dirty sink with cold water and drank. He was on his third cupful when he heard footsteps approaching The deputy, Tyler Erickson, was staring at him through the bars of the cell door.

  "You are one sorry son of a bitch, Lame Brain," said Erickson, inserting a key in the lock and swinging the door open.

  The Indian tried to force a smile but his lips were too bruised and swollen. The deputy, a tall, wiry man, stood with his thumb hooked in his belt, the hand resting next to the butt of his revolver.

  "How the hell can you stand your own stink? I told the sheriff we should have left you lying out there in the snow, but you know how good-hearted he is."

  "I don't remember anything," Lame Elk said. He had difficulty recognizing his own voice. "What happened to my face?"

  Erickson snorted and shook his head in disgust. "Russ says if you try to come into his bar again he'll send you to the happy hunting ground. You owe him for a busted stool and a smashed mirror. Here's the bill. He says you should put the money in this envelope and mail it to him by the first of the month or he's going to press charges."

  "Did he do this to my face?"

  "You got into a fight with three guys. Not from around here. Russ called its but by the time we got there they were gone. You were lying in the street. Twenty below zero and you were just lying there."

  "You should have left me there."

  "If it was up to me, I would've. Let's go. I have your jacket and stuff in the office. You can go back to the rez and sleep it off. This jail ain't a motel."

  Lame Elk, unsteady on his feet, shambled after the deputy down the brightly lit corridor. His large bulk filled the doorway as he followed Erickson into the office. The deputy picked up a form from the desk and pointed to the items lying next to it. "One wallet containing six dollars. A pocketknife. One sheepskin coat. Sign here."

 
The Indian leaned over the desk and rested his wrist on the paper to control the trembling of his hand. At that moment the front door of the office opened and a ruddy-faced man entered, his Stetson pushed low on his head. The burst of frigid air that accompanied him into the room blew the paper from the desk as Lame Elk turned to face him.

  Ignoring the two men in the room, the man took off his coat and hat and hung them on a rack in the corner. He smoothed back his thinning gray hair and rubbed his hands briskly together.

  "Mighty cold," he said, acknowledging the deputy for the first time.

  "He's ready to go." Erickson gestured toward the Indian.

  "Hello, sheriff," Lame Elk mumbled, unwilling to meet the man's gaze. Instead, he stared at the star pinned on the guy's shirt.

  The sheriff squeezed behind his desk and sat down heavily in a swivel chair. The deputy had picked up the signed form off the floor and placed it in front of the sheriff, who ignored it.

  Lame Elk took his belongings from the desk and awkwardly put on his jacket. The sheriff regarded him thoughtfully. Whenever he saw Lame Elk, he thought of the Indian's father, Bear Hunter. The same broad shoulders and barrel chest. Long black hair and piercing eyes. The difference was that Bear Hunter had been a chief of the Northern Cheyenne, a man who commanded respect, not a drunken saloon Indian. It was the memory of Bear Hunter, a man he considered a friend until his death, that tempered his disgust when he looked at Lame Elk.

  "Wait," he called out as Lame Elk reached the door. The Indian hesitated, turning to face the sheriff. The deputy, busying himself at the file cabinet, also paused and swung his head around.

  The sheriff pointed to the chair in front of his desk. Tyler Erickson, disgusted by the stink of puke and alcohol fumes in the office, grimaced and turned back to his files. Lecturing these Indians was, he knew, a waste of time, but he wasn't about to tell the sheriff that. If Moran hadn't learned that in his twenty-two years as sheriff, he hadn't learned anything.

  Lame Elk sat down but refused to meet the man's eyes. The sheriff rummaged through his desk drawer before pulling out a small object from the very back.