When courting a prospective client, Crawley liked to make it clear he had at least one client who was more important. People despised you if they thought they were your number one client.
“I’m terribly sorry, Safford, but I’ve got to take this call. In the meantime—order us a round of martinis.”
He hustled off to one of the old oak phone booths that could be found on every floor, shut himself in, and dialed. In a moment he had Delbert Yazzie on the other end.
“Mr. Booker Crawley?” The Navajo’s voice sounded faint, old, quavering, like it was coming all the way from Timbuktu.
“How are you, Mr. Yazzie?” Crawley kept his voice friendly but distinctly cool.
A silence. “Something unexpected seems to have come up. Have you heard of this preacher, Don T. Spates?”
“I certainly have.”
“Well, that sermon of his caused quite a ruckus out here already, just among our own people. As you know, we have a lot of missionary activity on the Navajo Nation. Now I’m hearing it may be causing a problem in Washington, too.”
“Yes,” said Crawley. “It is.”
“It seems to me this could be a serious challenge to the Isabella project.”
“Absolutely.” Crawley felt a swell of triumph. He had called Spates less than a week ago. This would go down as one of the masterstrokes of his career.
“Well, then, Mr. Crawley, what can we do about it?”
Crawley let a silence build. “Well, I don’t know if there’s anything I
“Our contract with you isn’t up for six weeks. We’re paid up until November first.”
“Mr. Yazzie, we’re not a house rental. That isn’t how things work in Washington. I’m sorry. Our work on the Isabella project has, most regretfully, come to a close.”
Crackle, hiss. “Losing the government leasing payments for the Isabella project would be a great blow to the Navajo Nation.”
Crawley held the receiver silently.
“I’m told Spates has a television program tomorrow night that’s going to attack the Isabella project again. And there are rumors Isabella is having problems. One of the scientists committed suicide. Mr. Crawley, I’m going to consult with the Tribal Council and see about getting your contract renewed. We’re going to need your help after all.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Yazzie, but we’ve filled your slot with another client. Really, I’m
The phone line spat noises into the silence. Crawley could hear a faint, ghostly conversation going on in the static. Christ, what kind of phone system did they have out there? Probably still using telegraph lines strung up by Kit Carson.
“Another firm would take too much time getting up to speed. We need Crawley and Stratham. We need you.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Yazzie. This kind of work involves a lot of one-on-one staff time. Very intensive. And we’re booked to the gills. To take this back on . . . It would mean hiring more staff, maybe even leasing more space.”
“We would be glad—”
Crawley interrupted. “Mr. Yazzie, I’m truly extremely sorry, but you caught me just before an important luncheon engagement. Would you be kind enough to call me Monday afternoon, say at four, eastern time? I really want to help, and I promise I’ll give it serious thought. Tomorrow night I’ll watch Spates’s show, and you and the Tribal Council should do the same, so we can get a better idea of what we’re up against. We’ll talk Monday.”
He exited the little booth and paused to relight his cigar, inhaling deeply. It was like a sweet, heady perfume. The whole Tribal Council watching the show—what a trip. Spates had better put on a good one.
He swept back into the billiard room, trailing a stream of smoke and feeling seven feet tall, but when he saw Safford crouching at the table, examining all the angles, he felt a twinge of irritation. Time to cut bait.
It was Crawley’s shot, and Safford had foolishly parked the cue ball where it could be snookered.
In five minutes, the game was over. Safford had lost—badly.
“Well,” said Safford, taking up his martini and smiling gamely. “I’ll think twice before playing billiards with you again, Booker.” He mustered an artificial chuckle. “Now about your fee,” he went on, his voice switching into
Crawley racked his cue and tossed the cigar into the sand bucket. He passed by his martini, not bothering to pick it up, and said, without looking back, “I’m afraid something’s come up, Safford, that requires me to cancel our lunch.”
He turned, then, to enjoy the expression on the developer’s face. The man stood there—cue, cigar, martini, and all—looking like he’d been slapped upside the head.
“If you change your mind about our fee, give me a call,” Crawley added as he strode out.
Safford Montague McGrath III wasn’t going to get it up tonight, that was for sure.
33
FORD REACHED THE BOTTOM OF THE mesa and rode down the wash in the direction of Blackhorse, Kate coming up and riding alongside him. Halfway down the wash he heard a horse nicker and turned. “Someone’s behind us,” he said, pulling Ballew to a stop.
Through a thicket of tamarisk came the sound of hooves, and a moment later a tall man pushed through on a big quarterhorse. It was Bia. The Tribal Police lieutenant halted and touched his hat brim. “Out for a pleasure ride?” he asked.
“We’re on our way to Blackhorse,” said Ford.
Bia smiled. “Nice day for it, not too hot, bit of a breeze.” He rested his hands on the saddlehorn. “Paying a visit to Nelson Begay, I imagine.”
“That’s right,” said Ford.
“He’s a good man,” Bia said. “If I thought there’d be trouble on this protest ride, I’d offer you a Tribal Police presence. But I think that might be counterproductive.”
“I agree,” said Ford, grateful for the man’s insight.
“Better to let them do their thing. I’ll keep an eye on them—discreetly.”
“Thank you.”
Bia nodded and leaned forward. “Long as you’re here, mind if I ask a question or two?”
“Shoot away,” said Ford.
“This Peter Volkonsky—did he get along with everyone?”
Kate answered. “Mostly.”
“No personality clashes? Disagreements?”
“He was a little high-strung, but we were cool with that.”
“Was he an important member of the team?”
“One of the most important.”
Bia tugged on his hat. “The man throws some clothes in a suitcase and leaves. It’s nine o’clock, give or take an hour, moon’s already up. Drives about ten minutes, then leaves the road and drives about a quarter mile across the desert. Comes to a deep ravine. Stops the car on an incline near the brink, pulls the emergency brake, turns off the engine, and puts the car in neutral. Then he puts a gun to his head with his right hand, releases the brake with his left hand, fires a bullet into his right temple, and the car rolls over the edge.”
He paused. The bar of shade under his hat hid his eyes.
“Is that what you think happened?” asked Kate.
