Tohono O'othham tribal police and spoke to an officer named Larry Garcia who spoke English just fine.
'Sure, we know Manny Chavez,' Larry told Brian Fellows. 'What's he done now?'
'Somebody beat him up pretty badly,' Brian replied. 'He's in surgery at TMC right now. Can you guys handle next-of-kin notification?'
'We'll try,' Larry said. 'He's got both a daughter and a son. We should be able to find one of them. What's your name again?'
'Brian Fellows. I'm a deputy with Pima County. I'll be here at the hospital for a while longer. Let me know if you locate someone, would you?'
'Sure thing,' Larry said. 'No problem. Give me your number.'
Brian gave him the surgical clerk's extension, then went outside and found Detective Leggett stationed beside an overflowing breezeway ashtray, smoking one of his smelly cigars.
'What's the scoop?' he asked. 'Any luck?'
'The tribal police are working on it,' Brian replied. 'They'll let us know.'
'I've been standing out here thinking,' Dan Leggett said. 'When you first contacted me, we thought the guy was digging up some kind of artifact. Maybe poor Manny Chavez made the same mistake. For the time being, let's assume, instead, that the first guy was burying something, specifically that pile of bones. Why would somebody go to all the trouble of doing that?'
'Because he had something to hide,' Brian offered.
'And what might that be? Maybe our grave digger had something to do with the first guy's crushed skull. Think about it. We're talking the same MO as with Manny Chavez. Whack 'em upside the head until they fall over dead.'
Brian nodded. 'That makes sense,' he said.
'So we've for sure got assault with intent on this grave-digging guy and maybe even an unknown and consequently unsolved homicide thrown in for good measure. That being the case, I'm not going to let this thing sit until morning. I'm going to go back out to the department and raise a little hell. I asked for a crime scene investigation team for tonight, but all I got was a deputy to secure the scene and the old 'too much overtime' song and dance. I want faster action than that. If I play my cards right, I'll be able to get it. In the meantime, you hang around here and wait for the next of kin. Once they show up, get whatever information you can, but if the doc says we can talk to Manny himself, you call me on the double.'
'Will do,' Brian replied.
He went back into the waiting room and settled down on one of the molded-plastic chairs. While he sat there and waited for one or the other of Manny Chavez's kids to show up, Brian finished filling out his paper. As he worked his way down the various forms, Brian was once again grateful that Dan Leggett had taken the call. The deputy was glad not only for his own sake, but also for the sake of Manny Chavez's unnotified relatives, whoever they might be. There were plenty of detectives in Bill Forsythe's sheriff's department who wouldn't have given a damn about somebody going around beating up Indians-plenty who wouldn't have lifted a finger about it.
Fortunately for all concerned, Dan Leggett wasn't one of those. He was treating the assault on Manny Chavez as the serious crime it was-a Class 1 felony. Not only that, Brian thought with a smile, the investigation Dan was bent on doing would no doubt necessitate interviewing everyone involved. Including a good-looking Border Patrol agent named Kath Kelly.
Time passed. Brian lost track of how long. He was sitting there almost dozing when the clerk woke him up, saying there was a phone call for him.
'Deputy Fellows?' Larry Garcia asked.
'That's right.'
'I just had a call from one of my officers. He's on his way to Little Tucson. There's a dance out there tonight. We're pretty sure Delia Cachora, Manny's daughter, will be there. Once they find her, it'll take an hour or more for them to get her into town. Will you still be there, at the hospital?'
Detective Leggett had given Deputy Fellows his marching orders. 'Most likely,' Brian told him. 'Have her ask for me.'
Quentin Walker was more than half lit and still in the bar at seven o'clock when Mitch Johnson finally showed up at El Gato Loco. Among the low-brow workingmen that constituted El Gato's clientele, the well-dressed stranger sporting a pair of dark sunglasses stuck out like a sore thumb.
'You're late,' Quentin said accusingly, swinging around on the barstool as Mitch sidled up beside him.
'Sorry,' Mitch returned. 'I was unavoidably detained. I thought you said you'd be waiting out front.'
'I was for a while, but it was too hot and I got too thirsty waiting outside. Want a drink?'
'Sure.'
'Well, order one for me, too. I've gotta go take a leak.'
The beer was there waiting on the counter when Quentin returned from the bathroom. Coming back down the bar, Quentin tried to walk straight and control his boozy stagger. He didn't want Mitch to realize how much he'd already been drinking, to say nothing of why. Quentin still couldn't quite believe he had killed that damned nosy Indian, but he had, all because he had walked up and caught Quentin red-handed with Tommy's bones right there in front of God and everybody.
Now, Quentin was looking at two potential murder charges instead of one. Jesus! How had that happened to him? How could he have screwed up that badly? The one thing he didn't want to lose sight of, though, was how much the money from those damned pots would mean to him now.
Nobody knew Quentin Walker owned a car. It would take days, weeks, maybe, for all the paperwork to make its way through official channels. With a proper vehicle and a grubstake of running money, Quentin might even be able to make it into the interior of Mexico. He could leave via that gate on the reservation, the one he had heard so much about from Davy and Brian. It was supposed to be an unofficial border crossing where Indians whose lands had been cut in half by the Gadsden Purchase could go back and forth without the formality of border guards of any kind.
When Mitch Johnson had first shown up with his offer to buy the pots, Quentin had been intrigued more than interested. Now, though, that very same offer of money was of vital importance. The last thing Quentin wanted to do was to spook Mitch into calling the whole thing off. If Mitch walked away, taking with him those five bills with Grover Cleveland's mug shot on them, then Quentin Walker could be left high and dry, without the proverbial pot to piss in. He would have no money and nowhere to run, and he'd be stuck with two possible murder raps staring him in the face. Nobody was ever going to believe that Tommy's death had been an accident.
'How about something to eat?' Quentin suggested, thinking that food might help sober him up. 'The hamburgers here aren't bad.'
'Sure,' Mitch Johnson said easily. 'I'll have one. Why the hell not? We're not in any hurry, are we?'
Shaking his head, Quentin leaned his arms against the edge of the bar to steady himself. 'Not that I know of,' he said. 'I do have some good news, though.'
'What's that?' Mitch asked.
'I used some of the money you gave me to buy myself some wheels. I picked up a honkin' big orange Bronco XLT. It's a couple years old, but it runs like a top. If you want, we could drive out to where the pots are in that. I don't know what kind of vehicle you're driving, but the terrain where we're going is pretty rough, and the Bronco is four-wheel-drive.'
Mitch Johnson had to fight to keep from showing his disappointment. He had been planning all along that he'd be getting back almost a full refund of that initial five thousand bucks he had given Quentin. And he had less than no intention of giving the little creep his second installment. After all, once Quentin Walker was dead, he wouldn't have any need of money-or of a car, either, for that matter.
Instead of bitching Quentin out-instead of mocking him for his stupidity-Mitch was careful to mask his disappointment. 'So, you bought yourself a car?' he asked smoothly. 'What kind did you say?'
'A Bronco.' To Mitch, Quentin's answer seemed unduly proud. 'It's the first time I've had wheels of my own in years. It feels real good.'
'I'll bet it does,' Mitch Johnson agreed.
After that exchange, Mitch sat for a long time and considered this changed state of affairs. His plan had called for the next part of the operation to be carried out in the Subaru. That way he would have the canvas-drying crate to use to confine either Lani and/or Quentin, should the drugs somehow prove unreliable. The idea of
