The Death Of Blue Mountain Cat Part 32

"Fraud? We never represented them as anything other than what they were-pots made by Indian artists."

"You didn't say they were Anasazi?"

"No. We circulated pictures without saying anything except that they were for sale. And they got a chance to look at what they were getting before they put their money down. If they jumped to the wrong conclusions..." He shrugged. "Caveat emptor."

"What about your spat with David the night he died?" Caleb asked Irene. "You were very convincing. Was it staged?"

She blushed. "Thanks. Yes. We thought a fuss would get free publicity for David's show and call attention to our 'Anasazi' artifacts. There wouldn't have been any point if it wasn't convincing. We even had a reporter on the guest list. The plan would have worked if someone hadn't murdered David."

"A reporter?" Thinnes said.

"She must've caved in to pressure from someone to hush the whole thing up, because there wasn't a word about it on the society pages, and the only thing in the rest of the paper about David made his death seem like just another semianonymous urban tragedy." Irene looked at Thinnes. "After David died, Kent pretended not to know about our plan or what happened to all the fake Anasazi pots David had squirreled away."

"We think he might be selling off the inventory," Dennison said. "But we have no way of knowing. Each part of the operation was separate. David would bring things to me for my opinion, or have people call me, for advice on how something should be, without giving me their names. David was the linchpin. He had all the names in his head. When he died, they were lost."

"Who got the money?"

"We all got a little. Various foundations got anonymous gifts. How he did it sometimes was, he'd show a piece to some rich collector and tell him it would be delivered when his check to AIM, or the Smithsonian, or the Heard Museum cleared."

Irene added, "We weren't ever in it for the money, so we decided to keep quiet, especially since Kent threatened to tell Matt's wife about us if we didn't just go away. Whatever Kent has in mind undoubtedly involves him getting rich, and probably involves fraud-which we've carefully avoided. But since it'll have the same effect on black-market profits as the original plan, we decided to just bow out."

Thinnes said, "Tell us about Thomas Redbird."

"I know him slightly," Irene said. "He does deliveries and odd jobs for David...Did."

"Did?"

"Now that David's gone, I don't imagine there'll be much work for him."

Thinnes turned to Dennison. "Doctor?"

"I don't believe I've met him."

Thinnes pulled out Redbird's photo. "Look familiar?"

Dennison shook his head.

"What did he do?" Irene asked.

"Got himself killed."

Irene's shock seemed genuine. Dennison was indifferent. Why not? If you didn't know him personally, he was just another Chicago statistic.

They said that all they knew about Harrison Wingate was what David told them; he was a land-raper who never let archeological remains get in the way of a project. They agreed David couldn't have proved that or he would have turned his evidence over to the police, and were pretty sure that was why he was killed.

"What did you mean when you told your father Bisti was a witch and someone turned his evil around on him?" Thinnes asked Irene.

She made a disgusted face. "I was angry. I was just mouthing off. I didn't mean it. Ah-David could be a real jerk, sometimes."

Remembering the question Caleb had asked Lauren Bisti, he said, "What's the significance of the cougar in Navajo mythology?"

Dennison answered. "In the Bead Chant, members of the cat family give medicinal plants to the People. In other connotations they're snitches or messengers."

"Like the Greek G.o.d Mercury," Irene said. "David loved that."

"Though in Navajo tradition," Dennison added, "Coyote also performs some of Mercury's functions. Like Mercury, Coyote's a thief, and he's responsible for mischief and chaos."

"David had to have intended for people to make the connection," Irene said, "between cougar as a messenger, and artist as messenger."

"So who killed the messenger?"

When they were back in the car, heading north on the Drive, Thinnes said, "What can you tell me about Navajo witches?"

"Most of what I know, I got from reading Hillerman's novels," Caleb said. "I gather you have to understand Navajo philosophy to comprehend witchcraft."

"Can you put it in a nutsh.e.l.l?"

"They don't have an organized religion with formal doctrine. It's more a way of life-in harmony with others and with Nature-like the Tao."

Thinnes decided not to ask what that was. And he stifled the urge to ask Caleb to get to the point.

"If I understand it correctly, it's something like the Force in Star Wars. When you follow the Navajo way, the Force is with you. If you embrace the Dark Side, you're a witch or skinwalker or Navajo wolf-all metaphors for an evil person."

Sixty-Two.

The interview room was lit by overhead fluorescents. Three of its walls were painted cinder block, with hard, molded plastic seats attached to the walls by brackets; the fourth held the door and a one-way mirror window. Xaviar Ocampo was "hanging on the wall"-handcuffed to a giant staple between two of the seats. Outside the room, Thinnes stood with Oster, Viernes, and Rossi, and watched him.

"What page are we on here?" Rossi demanded.

"He's facing a number of state and federal gun charges at this point," Thinnes answered. "We think he'll finger John Buck's killer to avoid adding murder one."

Rossi made a face. "When're you gonna come up with a suspect in the Downtown Indian case? That's the one generating all the heat. I'm still getting a call a week on that one. Who cares who killed some drunk breed?"

Thinnes turned to Oster, as if Rossi hadn't spoken, and said, "Let me work on this guy." Oster nodded. "Viernes, would you get hold of Columbo?"

"Sure." Viernes turned away without a word to Rossi.

Oster pulled his notebook out of his pocket.

As Thinnes sauntered toward the interview room, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Rossi stood flat-footed while the others walked away, then he hurried off.

Thinnes entered the interview room. "Mr. Ocampo, I'm Detective Thinnes." Even though he'd heard Ryan run through the drill, he asked, "You've been read your rights?" He'd come to the force after Mapp, Miranda, and Escobedo, so he'd never found the landmark decisions to be a particular hindrance. He had heard veteran officers-good men-swear that the controversial decisions actually made for better policing. Not that they'd say so at a gathering of cops.

Losing a beef over Miranda meant either that you'd gotten sloppy and hadn't done your homework, or that the fix was in. He was always careful to avoid being sloppy. And if the case was fixed, there was nothing you could do. So either way, he did his job and didn't worry about it.

"No hablo Ingles," Ocampo said.

Thinnes shrugged, concealing his annoyance. He went back to the door and called to Oster loudly enough for Ocampo to hear clearly. "Carl, go get Viernes, would you? Mr. Ocampo seems to have forgotten how to speak English."

He backed into the room and sat opposite Ocampo, staring without fidgeting or blinking until the dealer looked away. It was going to be easier than he'd thought.

Viernes came in. "What's with this dipstick?"

"Mr. Ocampo's feeling so pressured, he can't remember his English."

Viernes nodded. "So you need a translator. Shoot."

"Maybe you'd better start by reading him his rights."

"Sure." Viernes took out his Spanish version of the Miranda card and read it. He could have recited it from memory, but some prosecutors liked to have it read so smart-a.s.s defense attorneys couldn't question the officer's interpretation. When he finished, he asked, "Lo entiendes?" Do you understand?

Ocampo nodded.

"Dime, s o no!" Viernes demanded.

"S."

"Mejor." Viernes looked at Thinnes. "He says he understands."

"Tell him who I am and what I do," Thinnes said. "Tell him I'm investigating a murder." He listened while Viernes translated and Ocampo responded. Thinnes had studied Spanish in high school, but all he remembered was a few commonly used phrases-que pasa? or gracias-and the profanity he'd learned on his dad's construction sites. Viernes was using some of that. He was also using the familiar form of his verbs-treating Ocampo like a child or a dog. It was part of the old good-guy, bad-guy routine, although Thinnes was usually the bad guy when questioning Hispanics. Viernes started shouting. Thinnes recognized Pobre put.i.to!

"Viernes, ask him where he was November sixth last year."

Viernes translated.

"Con amigos," Ocampo said.

"They have names?" Thinnes spoke directly to Ocampo.

"No recuerdo."

"Your bad luck. Tell him we're talking murder one, here." Thinnes held the .25 they'd taken from Mark Leon in front of Ocampo's face. The heavily engraved, nickel-plated, .25 caliber Browning, a Baby Browning, was not a gun he'd be likely to forget. The semiautomatic held one in the chamber and five in the clip. It had only taken one to kill John Buck. "This look familiar?"

Ocampo wiped his face with his sleeve. "No."

Viernes laughed. "The iceman's melting."

"This is a collector's item," Thinnes told Viernes. "They stopped making these. I'm surprised you'd part with it," he said to Ocampo. He handed the gun to Viernes. "It was used for a hit. Someone put it to the head of a poor, drunk son of a b.i.t.c.h and blew him away." He looked pointedly at Ocampo.

Ocampo said, "So?"

"The guy we got this from said you sold it to him."

"Huh!"

"He's got an alibi for last November sixth. Have you?"

"I want to talk to a lawyer."

"Here's the deal," Columbo told them. "Ocampo gives us a name and testifies if we need him. We let him plead to a single weapons count, simple battery, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor."

"Cops, one; bad guys, two," Oster said sourly.

"He wasn't caught on the premises," Columbo said. "His name's not on the lease. And his girlfriend isn't going to testify against him."

"So what's the name?" Thinnes said.

"Elvis Hale."

Sixty-Three.

District Three, on the South Side, had a lot in common with District Nineteen on the North. Both contained extremes of wealth and poverty. Headquarters was located at 71st and Cottage Grove, an aging white fortress of a building with its few street-facing windows set high up in the walls. Thinnes pulled through the lot north of the POLICE ONLY entrance and parked among the employees' cars, west of the building. A b.u.mper sticker on one of the cars jumped out at them: WE COME FROM DIFFERENT WORLDS-MINE HAS SOAP AND TOOTHPASTE. Oster shook his head and said, "Yeah." They went in through the police entrance, and Thinnes led the way down a hall that ended in the front lobby at a square counter.

The district commander was educated and had an excellent rep for handling personnel. It showed. However wild the neighborhood, the interior of the building was clean and calm, with freshly painted walls and polished floors-no fingerprints or gum wrappers anywhere. The officers on duty were fresh and polished too.

"Detective Thinnes?" the sergeant asked as Thinnes approached the desk. Thinnes couldn't remember having met him before.

Oster started to ask, "How...?" but looked around and trailed off. Theirs were the only white faces in the room.

"Yes," Thinnes told the sergeant. He had a sudden flash of understanding of how Swann must feel sometimes, walking in the door at Nineteen. He didn't think he was racist, but he was suddenly acutely aware that his and Oster's were the only white faces in sight. It was something he never thought about at Western and Belmont, where the personnel roster was also integrated but was more noticeably white, and where the human division was into cops or not-cops.

The sergeant smiled. "Officer Madison's waiting for you in the tac office." He pointed back the way they'd come. "Down the hall, on the right."

The door of the tactical office was open, and Madison was sitting inside the room on one of the desks, sipping coffee from a Dunkin Donuts cup. Black, five eleven, 190 pounds, with a medium complexion and a neat afro. He was wearing old Levi's, new Nikes, and a Bulls jacket. He had his ID on a chain around his neck, in compliance with the posted regulation: IDS WILL BE DISPLAYED BY ALL PERSONNEL WEARING STREET CLOTHES WHILE IN THE BUILDING.

Madison said, "You're Thinnes."

Thinnes nodded.

Madison finished his coffee, crumpled the cup, and lobbed it into the wastebasket beneath a neatly printed sign: THERE'S NO REASON FOR IT. IT'S JUST POLICE POLICY. "Let's go get your boy."

They followed him into another office that had its own interview room and a holding tank with a small window in the door. A second tac officer-black, male, five eight, 160 pounds-was sitting behind the desk with his legs stretched out beneath it and his fingers laced together behind his head. He was dressed as a laborer and had his ID stuck to his shirt pocket with an alligator clip.