Ice and Stone Page 7

  “Who made the complaints?”

  “Victims and witnesses both.”

  “Military witnesses?”

  “Yes. Generally, naval witnesses of brutality don’t protect their own.”

  I should’ve known that: my father had been a noncom in the navy much of his life. He would’ve reported Arneson too.

  “Any more on him?” I asked Mick.

  “He ended his naval career in purchasing—making deals for cheap soap and toothpaste for the post exchanges. That must’ve bored him, because when his tour of duty was up, he went back to Meruk County.”

  “How’d he get to be sheriff?”

  “By being there at the right time. Nobody else wanted the job. And I guess they still don’t, because he’s been hanging on for eleven years now.”

  “Any indications of brutality?”

  “Nothing more than what’s typical in small-town jurisdictions. He beat up a high school kid, but the kid was supposedly attacking him with a lead pipe. Drew his gun on a bunch of men who were fighting in a bar, but they backed down and left. Shot the mayor’s dog—claimed it was attacking him. Roughed up juveniles before returning them to their parents.”

  “But the potential for more violence is there. What about his personal life?”

  “Married three times, divorced twice. Current wife’s name is Abby.”

  “Grounds for the divorces?”

  “Both no-fault. Although he did settle twenty thousand on the second wife.”

  “Meaning she had something on him.”

  “Probably. You need anything else—about the victims or their families?”

  “Anything you can get.”

  “I’ll see what I can find. Oh, I’ve got a message for you from Hank Zahn. He wants you to do him a favor. I told him you were out of town, but he asked me to give you the message when you checked in.”

  “What’s the favor?”

  “He wants you to talk with Habiba.”

  Hank Zahn was my best male friend since college days, my former boss from All Souls Legal Cooperative, and my lawyer. Habiba Hamid was Hank and his ex-wife’s adopted twelve-year-old daughter. Hank had hinted that she wasn’t dealing too well with the divorce, but things must have gotten worse since we’d last spoken.

  I asked, “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “Evidently. He said she’ll tell you.”

  “When does he want me to call her?”

  “ASAP. You have her cell number?”

  “Yes.”

  12:50 p.m.

  Habiba didn’t recognize the number I was calling from, of course, but still she picked up immediately. “Shar,” she said when she heard my voice, “oh my God, everything’s going to hell.”

  We’d been in touch infrequently since her parents divorced, but when we did talk, she was usually upset. As seemed to be the case now.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re driving me crazy!”

  “Hank and Anne-Marie? What have they done now?”

  “Anne-Marie’s been offered a great job in Dallas. She wants to take me with her. Hank wants me to stay with him. They’re talking custody suits.”

  I repressed a sigh. “What do you want?”

  “Nobody’s asked me.”

  “I am.”

  Pause. “Well, I’d rather things go on like they are now, but that’s not possible. Dallas is…well, icky.”

  “Not really. It’s a very cosmopolitan city.”

  “Don’t give me that. It’s in Texas.”

  “Texas has a fascinating history, and some of our best writers live there. McMurtry—”

  “Who?”

  “Larry McMurtry. He’s a world-famous novelist and screenwriter. He won the Pulitzer Prize for Lonesome Dove, an epic about a cattle drive.”

  “Well, good for him, but cows are gross.”

  I gave up on that tack. “So you want to stay here?”

  “There’s a problem with that too—Hank’s talking about moving to Santa Barbara—some new woman he’s got there. I love Anne-Marie, and I love Hank too. All my friends are here. My school is here. And if I tried to switch off between them, I’d spend all my time on airplanes. And I fuckin’ hate to fly.”

  “You want me to talk to them?”

  “Would you?”

  McCone, the go-to girl for people with problems.

  “Yes, but I can’t right away. I’m in the middle of an investigation.” And in no frame of mind to mediate a family dispute. “Are you staying with either of them?”

  “No, with a friend from school. But I don’t think her parents want me here.”

  “You’ve got a key to my house, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take a cab there and move into the guest room. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but stay until we get things settled. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Shar.”

  Shar—the go-to girl.

  1:11 p.m.

  Jake Blue was still nowhere to be found in Aspendale. There was nothing else for me to do in the village, and I wasn’t ready to return to the shack, so I called Allie Foxx. Would it be possible to take her up on her previous offer of a tour of the rez? I asked. She responded in the affirmative: “I’ve gotta get out of this office!”

  She picked me up in her Land Rover an hour later. On the way out of town I filled her in on what I’d learned so far.

  She asked, “Do you think Jake Blue may be involved with these murders?”

  “No, not directly. Unless his sister’s murder four years ago is somehow connected. He thinks one of the Harcourt brothers may be involved.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. The Harcourts are elitists—they do pretty much whatever they want to.”

  “But killing?”

  “Who knows? Those people will do anything to preserve their status and power.”

  We sped across barren land dotted with boulders, shadowed patches of snow, and winter-dead vegetation. In the distance, jagged peaks thrust upward into banks of low-hanging clouds. The afternoon felt heavy, oppressive. I opened my window slightly to let in the cold air.

  Allie said, “This land was gifted to us by the ‘generosity’ of the US government—never mind that they stole it from us in the first place. First I’m going to take you on a short tour, then we’ll go see Mamie Louise. She’s an auntie of mine.”

  Nothing marked the entrance to the reservation. A dirt road veered off the highway through scrub cacti and more dead vegetation. After about half a mile it ended at some weathered wooden barriers where a number of beater cars and trucks were parked.

  Allie said, “From here on, we travel by foot.”

  “Nobody drives in?”

  “Very few, except for delivery trucks. There’s a history of flash floods here.”

  Great. Acres of barren land, few services, and the possibility of drowning. This is what they gave the Natives.

  We skirted the other vehicles and moved along a narrow track that looked beaten down by generations of feet. The sky was a mottled gray, clouds rolling in, but when I asked Allie about the prospect of rain or snow, she shook her head. “The storm clouds’ll drift southeast, end up in Nevada.”

  Buildings began to appear: a few plywood shacks, a scattering of prefabs of different ages and states of repair, a pair of old log cabins. Directly ahead of us was a low cinder-block structure flying a flag I didn’t recognize.

  Allie said, “That’s the Meruk Nation Hall and convenience store. We’ve got no medical services on the rez, but a doctor and a couple of nurses volunteer to come in every two weeks or so and hold a clinic there.”

  “What if somebody has a serious health problem or needs emergency assistance?”

  “Serious problems have to be treated in Alturas or Crescent City, even as far away as Santa Rosa. It means a helicopter ride. As for other emergencies”—she shrugged—“you hope for a response.”

  I looked up at the flag on the Meruk Nation Hall. It depicted thin, black, dan
cing figures against a wavy background of fiery orange, bright blue, and magenta.

  When I asked her about the flag, Allie replied, “It depicts the Three Warriors—an important part of Meruk legend.”

  “The warriors look to be women.”

  “They very well could be. We’re a matriarchal tribe. Most are. Stems from the days when the males went out hunting and were never home. Women had to control the home and the land. They were the decision-makers. Some even fought in wars.”

  I was about to ask her more when I saw a woman approaching us—short, nearly bald, with nut-brown skin and a big smile. She walked with an intricately carved cane, and her clothing was brilliant—not in the hues of the Meruk flag, but in the shiny turquoise and pink polyester offerings of Walmart.

  “Auntie,” Allie called.

  The woman’s smile grew wider, revealing gapped teeth. “’Bout time you came to see me, you rascal,” she said. “Who’s this with you?”

  “A friend from San Francisco, Sharon McCone. She’s come to see the rez.”

  Mamie Louise stared at me, eyes narrowed. “She looks like the city, but part of her belongs here. What’s your tribe, girl?”

  “Shoshone.” The clan was what Elwood had told me; I suspected he’d made it up. My birth father had spent many years in New York, only returning when his wife, a member of the Blackfeet Nation, wanted to get back to her roots. Elwood in many ways was as citified as any of Manhattan’s residents.

  Mamie Louise considered. “Good people, them Shoshones. Too proud of their horses, but otherwise good.” She turned her gaze to Allie. “You just lookin’ around, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hmmm. Well, look all you like, and then you come back to my house for tea.”

  As we walked away, Allie whispered to me, “Be prepared. She makes the most horrible tea in the West—bark, roots, wild berries, strange plants. It’s a wonder she hasn’t killed anybody yet.”

  “She seems somewhat formidable.”

  “She is. On this rez there are three Warrior Women, a title that’s passed down from generation to generation. They’re tough as nails, and they rule. Absolutely nothing happens here without their official okay. She may seem like a dotty old lady, but Mamie Louise is the strongest of all.”

  3:38 p.m.

  Mamie Louise’s tea was horrible—but the rez was worse. Children played in the hardscrabble soil, as children the world over do, blissfully ignorant of the difficult lives they faced in the future. A few women gathered around a metal drum, washing clothes; their movements were slow and heavy, and they regarded Allie and me listlessly as we passed.

  Mamie Louise had prepared a tea tray on her rickety kitchen table: three kinds of brew and a plate of oatmeal cookies that her next-door neighbor had baked. The cookies helped tame the taste of the tea. And Mamie’s joy at having visitors turned the gathering into a special occasion.

  She chattered about the rez. “Once this was beautiful country. I came here as a bride with my first husband, who I met over in Idaho, where I was born. Our girls, they both died as babies. Measles, nobody ever vaccinated here. For a while we talked about going someplace else, where they treated you like human beings, but the time just passed…My husband, he died in a tractor accident on a ranch where he was working. My next man, he went off, looking for lively times in the big city. There were others, but nobody that really counted.”

  “Are you glad you stayed here?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure. It’s home. I got my government allotment. I got my say in local matters. Besides, where would I go? No family, no friends except who’s here. Although I sometimes get visitors. More of them than ever lately.”

  That caught my attention. “Oh, who?”

  She sat up straighter, looking proud. “Some of the finest white folk around here. Mr. Paul Harcourt—you know those people?”

  I nodded.

  “He brought me two bags of fertilizer for my vegetable garden and promised to come back and dig it into the soil. And that man who owns the lumberyard—what’s his name? Well, no matter. He stopped by and helped me make plans for a chicken coop. I haven’t had chickens for years, and I do like fresh eggs. He said he’d bring me the materials at no cost.” She turned shining eyes to me. “Ain’t it wonderful, what the good people in the world will do?”

  5:10 p.m.

  “‘Ain’t it wonderful?’” I said to Allie as we sped back toward Aspendale.

  “It ain’t. Something bad is going on around here.”

  “You mean you don’t believe millionaires are eager to build chicken coops for indigent old lady Natives?”

  She snorted. “No. And I don’t just mean the murders.”

  We rode in silence for a time. Then the cell in my pocket buzzed, something of a surprise because the only people who had the number were the Sisters and Mick.

  It was Mick, sounding distressed. The line was fairly clear this time, clear enough for me to hear chaotic noise in the background—raised voices, furniture scraping. “Shar, I’ve got some bad news. There’s been a shooting here—”

  “What?”

  “Some nut with a semiautomatic pistol busted in—I don’t know how he got past all our security—and started firing. Ted was the only one who got hit.”

  Oh my God.

  “Ted…He’s not…”

  “No, he’s all right. Just a flesh wound in his shoulder. Pure luck that nobody else was hurt, but everybody’s pretty badly shaken up.”

  “What about the shooter?”

  “One of the security guards heard the shots, rushed in, and blew him away. No ID on him yet. You’re going to need to come down, deal with the cops and insurance people.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  When I blurted out the news to Allie Foxx, she drove me straight to the airstrip. Hal Bascomb, whom I called as we drove, had my plane fueled and ready to go.

  The flight seemed to take forever. I was badly upset by the news; I couldn’t imagine what had triggered the attack. And I feared for Ted, my forever friend…

  My landing at North Field was less than stellar, but I didn’t think I’d record it as such in my logbook.

  I reclaimed my car from where I’d parked it near the tie-downs and headed for the Bay Bridge. Traffic was snarled in spite of its being past the rush hour, and I cursed all the way into the city.

  7:01 p.m.

  By the time I arrived at our building, only one police car was still on the street, and any onlookers had long since been dispersed. Shards of broken glass from our triple-paned windows glittered on the sidewalk. A uniformed cop stood guard at the entrance, and when I showed him my ID, he allowed me into the underground parking garage. The one elevator that was working took a long time to get to our floor.

  There were armed security guards by the elevator; they knew me and waved me inside. Furniture had been tipped over, items on the desks knocked askew. My eyes were drawn to a huge blood spatter on the carpet—the shooter’s, evidently, where the guard had shot him. Two bullet holes marred the wall behind the reception desk; more slugs had ripped down the hallway, past other cubicles, and taken out a Plexiglas partition around Ted’s domain.

  A heavy silence filled the suite. Mick appeared when I called out, put his arms around me, and held me close.

  I asked, “Ted?”

  “Being treated at SF General.”

  “Everybody else?”

  “They’re shaken but okay. I sent them home.”

  “Has the shooter been ID’d yet?”

  “Not yet. The detectives seem to think he might be connected with Hy’s work in Mexico.”

  “Hy—does he know what happened?”

  “He knows. I got hold of him right after I talked to you.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  “As soon as he can.”

  I let go of Mick, straightened. “Where was Ted when the shooter broke in?” I asked.

  “Just coming down the hallway. The
first shot got him in the shoulder, the second missed entirely.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “There’s an SFPD cop who wants to talk with you. I put his number on your desk.”

  “Okay, I’ll deal with it.”

  I went into my office, dumped my bags on my desk, and sat down on one of the chairs in the seating area that overlooked the Bay. Fog had been streaming in as I’d landed at Oakland, and now all I could see was a blank gray wall.

  9:15 p.m.

  I made short work of the phone interview with the homicide cop, an inspector named Frank Baker. No, I had no enemies who would have retaliated in such a blatant way. Did my husband? I didn’t know; we kept our investigations separate. Where was he? On his way from Mexico. Where had I been at the time of the attack? In Meruk County, working a case. What case? That’s confidential. We need to know, Ms. McCone. I need to talk with my attorney, Inspector Baker.

  9:30 p.m.

  I tried to call Hy but got no answer on his cell. I left a voice mail message. Next I called the hospital to check on Ted. Good news: he’d been released an hour before in the care of his husband, Neal Osborn.

  Hank, my attorney and close friend, was third on my list. He’d already heard what had happened and sounded shaken. I told him about my conversation with Inspector Baker, and he said he’d talk to Baker and negotiate a convenient time for a phone interview with me.

  Then he asked, “Have you talked with Habiba?”

  “Yes. Don’t you think you’ve treated her shabbily? You don’t take a child into your life and just toss her aside when it’s inconvenient.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “I’ve said my piece. Do what your conscience dictates. And now I’ve got to go.”

  When I called Ted’s home, Neal answered and said he was resting comfortably.

  “Is he in pain?” I asked. “Badly upset?”

  “He’s still flying high on a shot they gave him at the hospital. So no pain. No upset either—he thinks of himself as a hero.”

  “Well, give the hero my love, and tell him I’ll come see him tomorrow.”