the principal to get a substitute teacher, and…'
A white Ford sedan pulled up behind his pickup truck. Two men in it. The one on the passenger side got out and hurried up the walk to the manager's office. He was a short man, middle-aged, with a stocky, disciplined body and a round pink face. He wore gray pants and a seersucker coat. The door of the office opened before he reached it. The conversation there was brief. The short man looked over at Chee, saw him, and came directly across the grass toward him. At the Ford, the driver's door opened and a much larger man emerged. He stood for a moment watching. Then he, too, came sauntering toward the Gorman apartment.
The short man was talking before he reached the porch. 'Lady says you're looking for Albert Gorman. That right?'
'More or less,' Chee said.
'That your truck?'
'Yes.'
'You from Arizona?'
'No,' Chee said. He had bought the license plates when he was stationed at Tuba City, before his transfer to Shiprock.
'Where you from?'
'New Mexico.'
The bigger man arrived. Much bigger. Six-foot-four or so, Chee guessed, and broad. Much younger too. Maybe thirty-five. He looked tough. While he waited on the porch, Chee had decided he might expect fbi agents to arrive. These men were not fbi agents.
'You're a long way from home,' Shortman said.
'Nine hundred miles,' Chee agreed. 'You fellows know where I can find this Albert Gorman? Or any of his family? Or his friends?'
'What's your connection with Gorman?' Shortman asked.
'Don't know him,' Chee said. 'What's your interest?'
Under Shortman's coat, Chee could see just the edge of a brown leather strap, which might be part of a harness holding a shoulder holster. Chee couldn't think of anything else it might be. Shortman wasn't interested in answering Chee's question. He reached under his jacket and extracted a leather folder from the inside pocket. 'Los Angeles Police Department,' he said, letting the folder flop open to display a badge and photograph. 'Let's see some identification.'
Chee fished out his wallet, opened it to show his own badge, and handed it to Shortman.
'Navajo Tribal Police,' Shortman read. He eyed Chee curiously. 'Long way from home,' he said again.
'Nine hundred miles,' Chee repeated. 'And now can you tell me anything about this Gorman? We have a girl—' He stopped. The big man was engulfed in laughter. Chee and Shortman waited.
'Mister,' the big man said, 'Shaw here can tell you everything about Albert Gorman. Shaw is the world champion expert on everything about Gorman. Gorman is part of Shaw's hobby.'
Chee held out his hand to the short man. 'My name is Chee,' he said.
'Willie Shaw,' the short man said, shaking hands. 'This is Detective Wells. You have time for a talk? Cup of coffee?'
Wells shook Chee's hand with the soft, gentle grip he'd learned to expect from huge people. 'Good thing Shaw is retiring,' he said. 'Police work is starting to interfere with the hobby.'
'Mr. Chee here will give me a ride, I'll bet,' Shaw said. 'We'll go to that Vip's down on Sunset.' He said it to Wells, but Wells was already walking back to the Ford. 'Now,' Shaw said, 'I want you to start off by telling me what got the Navajo police interested in Albert Gorman.'
Chee kept the explanation simple—just the oddity of Gorman's unfinished burial preparations, the question of where Hosteen Begay had gone, the problem of finding Margaret Sosi and learning from her what Begay had said in his letter. He had finished it by the time they slid into a booth in the coffee shop. Shaw stirred sweetener into his coffee. It was time for questions.
'The way I got it, Lerner just drove up to Gorman in the parking lot and shot him. Gorman shot back and drove off. Lerner dead in the lot. The Feds find Gorman dead of his gunshot wound later, at his uncle's house. That's it?'
'Not quite,' Chee said. He filled in the details.
'And Albert had stopped in the lot to talk to an old man there?'
'Yes,' Chee said. 'To ask directions.' Apparently Shaw had seen the fbi report. Why would he have seen it?
Wells had driven into the Vip's lot and come in and spotted them.
'Scoot over,' he said, and sat beside Shaw.
'What did they talk about?' Shaw asked. 'Gorman and the old man?'
It was exactly the right question, Chee thought. Shaw impressed him.
'What's your interest in Gorman?' Chee asked, keeping his voice very friendly. 'I mean, as a Los Angeles police department detective?'
'In fact, as an arson squad detective,' Wells said. 'It's a good question. One of these days, the captain is going to ask it. He's going to say, Sergeant Shaw, how come everybody is burning down Los Angeles and you're chasing around after car thieves?'
