"Well, Lieutenant," said Chee, rushing in to keep the conversation away from tobacco tins and bruised feelings, "you said you're trying to find if there's a connection between the Doherty case and McKay. I can think of the placer gold link. And then Doherty having Denton's unlisted telephone number. But I think you were aware of both of those."
"I'd heard," Leaphorn said. "I guess that's what got me interested to start with. And now I should let you know where I stand. Denton asked me to do some work for him. He wants me to see if I can find out what happened to his wife. Find her, if she's findable."
Chee looked surprised. "You think that's possible? After all this time? I've heard two theories about Mrs. Denton. One is she's dead, and the other is she doesn't want to be found."
"I couldn't give him any hope. And I told him I wouldn't even try if he didn't lay everything out for me. But I've always wondered what happened to that woman."
"Has he 'laid everything out'?"
Leaphorn laughed. "Well, no. He seems to have misled me about what McKay was trying to sell him, for one thing. And he seems to have been lying a little about what was going on when he shot the man."
"Like how?"
"About the sale deal? Well—" Leaphorn reached into his inside jacket pocket and extracted a roll of paper and unrolled it on the table, exposing two maps.
"Maps," Chee said, grinning. "Why am I not the least bit surprised?"
"Well," said Leaphorn, sounding slightly defensive, "this whole business has been about maps, hasn't it?"
"Right," Chee said. "Sorry."
"McKay told Denton the location of this so-called Golden Calf dig was on this map—about here." With his fork, Leaphorn indicated a place on the southeast slope of the Zuñi Mountains.
"Denton told me he knew it couldn't possibly be there. Said he personally knows the geology of that area. Had walked all over it. So he ordered McKay out. They quarreled, McKay pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket, picked up his briefcase and the bag of money Denton had ready to pay him, and said he was leaving with both. As this was happening Denton got his own pistol out of his desk drawer and shot McKay. That's Denton's story."
Chee nodded. "That sounds like what came out of the sentencing hearing."
"Right," Leaphorn said. "But that's not the map McKay had locked in his briefcase when the cops came to look at his body. And the part about McKay pulling the pistol out of his jacket pocket doesn't work. Big, fat revolver, little jacket pockets. And he didn't have the jacket on when Denton shot him. No holes in it, no blood, and it was hanging over the back of a chair."
Leaphorn expanded his summary with the details of his exploration of the evidence basket and his conversation with Price. During all this, Officer Manuelito was leaning forward, studying the second of Leaphorn's maps. Leaphorn caught her eye.
"I believe this is where Mr. Doherty was shot," she said. "I think this is where the gold came from that was in that Prince Albert tin."
"I think you're right," Leaphorn said. "At least about the first part. But maybe McKay had collected it there. Not Doherty."
Bernie was looking at Chee, her expression odd, but for Leaphorn unreadable.
"Do you know which deputy found it?" Bernie asked.
"Price didn't say," Leaphorn said.
Chee, who had been studying the Mesa de los Lobos map, felt an urge to get off the tobacco-tin subject fast.
"Speaking of that McKay evidence basket," Chee said, "Osborne told me that Doherty may have also taken a business card out of it with a number written on it. He asked me if that number had any meaning to me. It didn't, except maybe the 'D' referred to Denton. How about the rest of you? It was 'D2187.'"
"End of the Denton telephone number, license plate, Social Security number?" said Bernie.
No one else had a suggestion.
"Much more important," Chee said: "Officer Manuelito here"—he acknowledged Bernie with a smile—"has pretty well established that this Coyote Canyon drainage off Mesa de los Lobos is where Doherty was shot. Doherty had worked that fire in there during that bad season a couple of years ago—part of one of the blm fire crews. The fire burned out the brush and uncovered an old mining sluice. Bernie found his tracks in there and a place where he seems to have dug some sand out of the sluice. And while she was in there, somebody shot at her."
"Shot at you?" said Leaphorn.
"Oh! Oh!" said Professor Bourbonette. "Tried to shoot you!"
Bernie, looking flustered, said: "Well, anyway, they missed."
"And," continued Chee, "the fbi got its team in there and found the slug. They're checking it against a thirty-thirty owned by Hostiin Peshlakai. An old fellow who lives near the mouth of the canyon."
"I've heard of him," Leaphorn said. "He did a Night Chant years ago for one of Emma's aunts. Is he their suspect in the Doherty killing, too?"
"Probably. Osborne's interpreter is a little weak on traditional Navajo, so they had me interview him." Chee laughed. "Osborne was in a hurry. He wanted yes or no answers, and you can guess how that went. Anyway, he finally said he didn't try to kill Bernie."
Leaphorn digested that a moment.
"Didn't try to kill her," Leaphorn said. "Did he deny he tried to scare her away?"
"I didn't ask him that," Chee said.
Leaphorn drank what was left of his coffee, looking at Chee over the cup. "What are you thinking?"
Chee shrugged. "Not much mystery there. Peshlakai says a place up the canyon is a unique source of some of the minerals and herbs hataali need for some ceremonies. Like the Yeibichai. He performs that one. I think he's trying to keep belagaani from destroying the sacred place. Bernie heard the interview. She agrees."
Chee provided some of the mythical and theological details of Peshlakai's statement, which were discussed. Bernie mentioned the artificial owl guarding the canyon from a tree. Louisa added a bit of her anthropological/sociological information about the role of owls as harbingers of death and disaster among southwestern tribes. Their orders arrived.
Over the coffee refills, Leaphorn got to the questions he'd come to ask.
"I may be getting myself in a sort of funny position," he said. "I mean, if I do some really serious digging for Denton while I'm hunting his wife, I'm going to need to know if the fbi decides he's a primary suspect in the Doherty homicide. I don't want to get in the way. Mess anything up. What do you think?"
"They don't tell me everything," Chee said. "They'd have to be interested. Doherty had Denton's telephone number with him. He'd taken that tin can out of the evidence file in the McKay case, and from what I hear, he seemed to be following McKay's tracks. Interested in the same old mine legend. But as far as I know they have absolutely nothing except some circumstantial evidence."
"Would you mind if I call you now and then and ask you if anything criminal is brewing about Denton?"
"Lieutenant," said Chee, "you didn't need to ask me that. Of course I won't mind. If I know anything, I'll tell you. Trouble is, I may not know. How about reversing it. If you learn something, you tell me."
"One more question. Do you think that Golden Calf dig, or whatever it was, is up Coyote Canyon?"
"I don't believe in these legendary mines," Chee said. "When I was a kid I used to think I'd go out someday and find the Lost Adams diggings, or maybe the Lost Dutchman's Mine, and when I was poking around on arroyo bottoms, sometimes I'd dig in the wet sand and pretend I was looking for placer gold. But no. I grew up. Peshlakai said there's some quartzite deposits up there somewhere, probably a little gold dust washes downstream if we ever have a wet summer. One wet year, maybe enough washed down to start the legend."
"So you're not out looking for it?"
Chee laughed. "Gold causes trouble. I don't look for that."
Chapter Seventeen
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Unfortunately for Joe Leaphorn, Denton had spent a lot of money on his telephone taping system. It was modern stuff, installed by a technician, and thus it had all the high-tech bells and whistles and a twenty-four-page instruction book written in the opaque language that the specialists use to exclude laymen from their science. Leaphorn had stacked the accumulated answering machine tapes in neat reverse chronological order, wasted fifteen minutes trying to get the first one to play, and finally called in Mrs. Mendoza. She showed him how to get the tape properly located in the proper slot, which buttons to push to reverse, repeat, adjust sound, and so forth. With that, Leaphorn put on the earphones and immersed himself in the weird world of those who read the personal ads: of the lost, lonely, lovelorn, the angry, the wanna-be-helpfuls, and the predators. The first caller to speak into his ear was one of the latter.