the good policemen. What’s the name of the place?” Vang extracted a folded postcard from his shirt pocket. Unfolded it, read from it.
Leaphorn understood “chapter house,” but the rest was lost in Vang’s Hmong interpretation of the message.
“Let me see it,” Leaphorn said, and took the card.
On it was written:
“I think you will have troubles finding that place,” Leaphorn said. “I think I should help you.”
“Yes,” Vang said. “This place. Torreon. I not find on my map. Nor some of these roads. They’re not included.
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Not marked.” He showed Leaphorn his map. It was an old Chevron Service Station version.
“An old map,” Leaphorn said. “I have a better one.” Tomas Delonie, he was thinking. Why was Tommy Vang making this trip?
“Mr. Delos gave you these directions, I guess,” Leaphorn said. “He didn’t have a new map. And I would doubt that he knows this eastern side of the Navajo Reservation very well.”
“I guess he wouldn’t,” Vang said.
“But he wrote these directions for you?”
“Oh, yes,” Vang said.
Leaphorn opened his mouth intending to ask why. To learn if Vang would tell him if Delos had explained the reason for this trip and just what he wanted Vang to learn about Delonie. But he wanted to approach that carefully with Vang.
“I guess he wanted to be sure he knew just where Mr. Delonie lives, and where he works, and things like that. Things he’d need to know if he wanted to come and visit him. He didn’t explain it, but it was about like that, I think. He told me just to sort of act like I was a tourist. You know. Asking about things, looking all around. But then he wanted me to be able to tell him what sort of vehicle Mr. Delonie drove—car or truck, what kind, what color. If he lived alone. Things like that. When he went to work.
When he came home. If he had a woman, or anybody else, living with him.”
Vang paused, reached into his jacket pocket. “And he gave me this.”
Vang extracted a very small camera and showed it to Leaphorn.
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“It is one of those new ones with the computer chips,” Vang said, smiling proudly. “Very modern. You look through the finder, and see what you are photographing, and click it. Then if you don’t like it, you can erase it, and shoot again until you get good pictures. What you think?
Pretty nice?”
“He wanted you to photograph Delonie?” That thought surprised Leaphorn.
“No. No. Not like taking his portrait, not anything like that. He said just take casual pictures. Of his house, his truck, things like that. But he didn’t want Mr. Delonie to see me taking pictures. He told me that lots of people don’t like having their pictures taken.”
“Did he want you to question Mr. Delonie about anything?”
“Oh no,” Vang said. “I was just to be acting like a tourist. Just curious. Just looking around. It would be best, Mr.
Delos said, if Mr. Delonie didn’t even notice me.”
“Did he tell you anything about Delonie? About whether he was an old friend? Anything like that?”
“No,” Vang said, “but I don’t think he was a friend.” Leaphorn studied Vang. “What causes you to think that?”
Vang shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just the way he looked when he talked about him. It make me think that Mr. Delonie made Mr. Delos feel nervous. Or something like that, I think.”
Exactly, Leaphorn thought. Mr. Vang is short on information but well armed with an astute intelligence. Smart enough to try to look beyond the bright and shiny surface of external appearances.
“You know, Tommy, I think the only sensible thing for 180
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us to do is for me to take you there,” Leaphorn said. “We can leave your car here in Crownpoint. Lock it up. We’ll tell whoever’s at the Tribal Police office. They’ll take care of it.”
Vang looked doubtful.
“Otherwise, you’ll probably get lost,” Leaphorn said.
“I think I have to take the truck I came in,” Vang said.
“Have to have it.”
