With that, Officer Manuelito inhaled deeply. A moment of silence ensued.
'Shot at you!' Chee said.
'I think so,' Bernie said. 'He missed. That's why I called in, really. I didn't see him and maybe he wasn't shooting at me, but I thought I should report it. And find out whether I'm still suspended.'
'Somebody shot at you!' Chee shouted. 'Are you all right? Where are you? Where are you calling from?'
'I'm home,' Bernie said. 'But you didn't answer me. Am I still suspended?'
'You never were suspended,' Chee said. From there the conversation settled into a relatively normal pace, with Chee shutting up and letting Officer Manuelito give an uninterrupted account of her afternoon. It wasn't until it had ended and Chee was leaning back in his chair, shocked, feeling stunned, digesting the fact that Bernie Manuelito might well have been killed, that he remembered that he had forgotten to apologize.
He'd need to report all this to Captain Largo, but Largo wasn't in his office today. Chee picked up the telephone again. He'd call Osborne, tell him the probable site of the Doherty homicide had been found, tell him an officer had been shot at there, and give him the details. He'd enjoy doing that. But halfway through punching in the numbers, he hung up. Officer Bernadette Manuelito was coming in. Officer Manuelito deserved to make her own report.
Chapter Thirteen
« ^ »
The car rolling to a stop in the parking lot of the McDonald's where Joe Leaphorn was eating a hamburger was a shiny black latest version of Jaguar's Vanden Plas sedan—which Leaphorn guessed was the only one of its vintage in Gallup. The man climbing out of it seemed totally out of character for the car. He wore rumpled jeans, a plaid work shirt, and a gimme cap decorated with a trucking company's decal. It shaded a slightly lopsided and weather-beaten face with a mouth that was too large for it.
Wiley Denton. He'd said he'd meet Leaphorn at the McDonald's at 12:15 P.M. and came through the entrance twenty-three seconds early.
Leaphorn stood and motioned Denton over to his booth. They shook hands, and sat.
'I guess I owe you an apology,' Denton said.
'How's that?'
'Last time I talked to you, I mean, before calling you down at Window Rock this morning, I hung up on you. Called you a son of a bitch. I shouldn't have said that. Sorry about that.'
'I've been called that several times,' Leaphorn said. 'Before and since.'
'I remember I was pretty pissed off at the time. Didn't mean to give any offense.'
'None taken,' Leaphorn said.
'Hope not,' said Denton, 'because I'm going to ask you for a favor. I'd like to get you to do some work for me.'
Leaphorn considered this a moment, looked at Denton who was studying his reaction, and waved over at the service counter. 'You want to get yourself something to eat?'
'No,' Denton said. He glanced around at the lunchroom crowded with the noontime hungry. 'What I'd rather do, if you've got the time, is go out to the house where we could talk with some privacy.' He pushed back his chair, then stopped. 'Unless you're just not interested.'
Leaphorn was definitely interested. 'Let's go have a talk,' he said.
Denton's house and its grounds occupied an expanse of the high slope that looked down on Gallup, Interstate 40 and the railroad below, and, fifty miles to the east, the shape of Mount Taylor—the Navajo's sacred Turquoise Mountain. Leaphorn had seen a few more imposing residences, most of them in Aspen where the moguls of Silicon Valley and the entertainment industry had been buying five-million-dollar houses and tearing them down to make room for fifty-million-dollar houses, but by Four Corners standards this place was a mansion. Denton pushed the proper button and the iron gate slid open, groaning and shrieking, to admit them to the drive. A little past the halfway point the gate stopped.
'Well, hell,' Denton said, and jammed the heel of his hand down on the car horn. 'I told George to fix that damn thing.'
'Sounds like it needs greasing,' Leaphorn said.
'I think George needs some greasing, too,' Denton said. 'He hasn't been good for much since—ah, since I went away and did my time.'
A tall, narrow-faced man wearing a red nylon wind-breaker was hurrying toward them. Leaphorn first noticed he was a Navajo with the western Navajo shape of broad shoulders and narrow hips, then that he had a nose which seemed to have been bent, that the face was familiar. Finally he recognized George Billie.
'You got back early, Mr. Denton,' Billie said. 'I was just about to take care of that gate.'
'Well, get it open now,' Denton said. 'And then get it fixed.'
'Okay,' Billie said. He had glanced at Leaphorn, glanced again, and then looked quickly away.
'
'All right,' Billie said. He put his shoulder to the gate and pushed it open. Denton drove through.
'You and George know one another,' Denton said. 'I bet I can guess how that happened. He said he was a wild kid. Did time for this and that before he quit drinking.'
Denton pushed another button, raising one of the three garage doors. They drove in. 'He's been working here for several years now. Pretty fair help, and Linda liked him. She thought he was sweet.' Denton chuckled at this description as they exited the garage and entered the house. Denton ushered Leaphorn through a foyer and down a hallway into a spacious office.
'Have a seat,' he said. 'And how about a drink?' Leaphorn opted for a glass of water, or coffee if
