Ice and Stone Page 9

  “No problem. I was just sitting here watching ghosts of my college days wander by.”

  “Ah, you’re an alumna.” He looked at me with more respect.

  Academics are odd that way: they think a degree confers special status upon a person. In my opinion it’s the former students’ abilities and how they use their learning that confer status. For years I’d considered my BA in sociology to be something they handed out as a reward for good test-taking abilities and being able to sit still even in the most boring lectures and seminars. But as time passed, I found that I’d developed an understanding of people, groups, and situations that I might not otherwise have had. And such an understanding is what an investigator thrives on.

  When I didn’t come forth with a ringing endorsement of my alma mater—which would have substantially lengthened our conversation—Professor Kennedy said, “I understand you want to talk to me about Josie Blue.”

  I shook my head to clear it of the memories. “Sorry. It’s always a little disorienting to come back here. Josie was a student of yours?”

  “Only for a history class that’s required for teacher certification. I met her there and then ran into her at a party about six months later.”

  “Isn’t there a prohibition against dating students?”

  “Dating students in one’s classes, yes. Otherwise…” He shrugged.

  “So you dated for…?”

  “The rest of that academic year. Then we moved in together. But late in her junior year she met up with some Native students and began talking about getting back to her roots. It started innocently enough: she studied up on crafts, organized a show of her beadwork, took some classes. But then she hooked up with this group that had a reputation for violent protests. She moved out on me, and from then on she was with them 24-7.”

  “Tell me about the group.”

  “The Indigenous Restitution Organization. They’re no longer in existence. They joined another group in a protest somewhere, I think at UC Davis, and there was a shooting. The other group’s leader was killed, and after that…Well, they may have gone underground, I don’t know.”

  “And Josie?”

  “She went home after graduation, and I never heard from her again, except for a text apologizing for our breakup and saying that she’d found her true love in Meruk County.”

  “She give any hint as to who that was?”

  “No. I’m wondering if it was a who or a what. I mean, maybe she came to identify more with the county after being away so long.”

  “Was Josie the sort of woman who would feel that way?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “You know, for all the time we spent together, I never really knew what went on in her head. She had a reserve that I couldn’t get past. She was easy to talk with, but afterwards I couldn’t quite grasp what we’d talked about. You know what I mean?”

  In certain circumstances I’d employed such a reserve myself. “I do,” I said, “I know exactly what you mean.”

  11:29 a.m.

  Mick picked me up on the same corner and slid over to let me drive. “Anything?” he asked.

  “Josie was in love with someone in Meruk—or maybe just the county itself.” I explained about the text she’d sent to Max Kennedy.

  “Cryptic,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Where to now?”

  “I want to see Ted. Considering the mess at the agency, I assume you want to work from home?”

  “Yeah. Drop me at my building.”

  12:20 p.m.

  Ted and Neal lived on Plum Alley, high on the northeastern side of Telegraph Hill, in a classic art deco apartment building. There was a rounded glass-block elevator at one corner and a number of boldly colored art-glass windows staggered at intervals across the façade. As I walked past them on the second-floor level, I thought of how the creatures they depicted reminded me of fantastical sea serpents.

  Neal answered the door in a red terry bathrobe. I didn’t believe I’d ever seen him so casual.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked.

  “Grumpy, is how he’s doing. I think he’d rather be back in the hospital being fawned over.”

  Neal looked tired. Difficult patients were outside the realm of his expertise.

  “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs. He’s all yours.”

  Like the building, the apartment was dramatic: two levels, with expansive Bay views and a curving staircase that rose to a chrome-railed catwalk that led between the bedrooms. Neal and Ted had preserved the building’s past in their choice of furnishings: thirties-style sofa and armchairs and ottomans in subdued colors. It was like stepping back in time—except for the sound of Bruce Springsteen’s voice coming from a speaker.

  I went up the stairs, crossed the catwalk to the rear bedroom. Ted lay on the king-size bed on top of a blue comforter, his shoulder bandaged. He wore a garish bright-yellow caftan.

  “Nice duds,” I said.

  “I hate them. I look stupid.”

  He did, but I didn’t confirm his judgment. Instead I placed a box of the peanut brittle he likes on his bedside table.

  “Are you willing to talk about the shooting? I know you’ve already gone over it with the police, but…”

  “Wasn’t much I could tell them. I was going over some spreadsheets—tax time coming up soon—and I heard a strange sound down by the reception area, went to see what was going on, and then felt a sharp pain and passed out.”

  “Did you see the shooter?”

  “Just a blur of black—his clothing, I guess.”

  “Anything else?”

  He shook his head.

  “Okay, to change the subject—why are you wearing that caftan if you hate it?”

  He sighed. “It’s the only fashion statement I can think of to make. Neal suggested it, but I can tell he doesn’t like it on me. In fact, he hinted that he’s beginning to find my changes of dress wearying.”

  “Sounds like you might be too.”

  “…Maybe. That Botany 500 stage went on way too long. After a while I started thinking like Mannix.” The private detective character in the 1970s TV crime show who had always sported the then-popular menswear.

  “Oh? In what way?”

  “Suspicious and angry.” Ted’s lips twisted, and I waited.

  “Maybe,” he finally said, “I’m just afraid of growing up.”

  I considered that. Ted and I, like many of our friends, come from a generation of sometimes childlike eccentrics. It had taken me a long time to realize that a well-tailored business suit presents a better image to clients than faded jeans. I’d had difficulty imagining myself owning a home, getting married, or managing a business. But then I’d realized those were only superficial changes; I’d always be the same person I was inside—quirky behavior, weird sense of humor, occasional acts of lunacy.

  I said, “Don’t grow up, just fake it. Don’t lose the caftans or the Botany stuff or your Hawaiian and Edwardian getups. That’s what closets are for.”

  “Yeah, but then what do I wear?”

  “Ask Neal. He likes to dress—and undress—you.”

  2:05 p.m.

  The agency struck me as an eerie, alien place. Even with the furnace on, the suite felt cold, and I could hear the wind whistling around the plastic tarps that had been taped over the broken windows. The blood and shards of glass had been cleaned up, but the bullet holes were still stark reminders of the shooting.

  I was on the way down the hallway to my office when Derek Frye came out of his office and told me the shooter had been identified. His name was Evan McCarthy, a drifter originally from Tennessee. His motive was not apparent, but he’d been carrying two thousand dollars in cash, an indication that he might have been paid for his rampage. SFPD was checking on his connections and recent whereabouts.

  I googled McCarthy but found nothing but a list of similar names, none of them from Tennessee. A welcome call from Hy came jus
t as I finished. Some sort of problem had held up his departure from Mexico, but his scheduled flight home would be leaving soon. It was the first I’d heard from him in quite a while, and I was relieved that he was all right. Given our often hazardous professions, our phone conversations were lifelines.

  “They’ve identified the shooter,” I told him, “a drifter named Evan McCarthy. Does the name ring any bells?”

  “No. Never heard of him.”

  “He had two thousand dollars on him. Paid to go after somebody in the agency, maybe—you, or me.”

  “Better me than you. What do the police think?”

  “Nothing definite, they’re still investigating. Any idea who may have hired him?”

  “None. If there’s a connection here in Mexico, I can’t imagine what it is. Could be something out of the past, if he was hired. Our firm has made a good many enemies over the years.”

  “We need to beef up security in this building.”

  “Yes, we do. How did McCarthy get in?”

  “One of the guards must have been away from his post and isn’t admitting it. The guard on our floor—Bendix—was the one who spotted and shot him.”

  “We’ll talk about it when I get there.”

  “If I’m still here by then. I’ve got to fly back to Meruk County pretty soon.”

  “Making any headway up there?”

  “Some. Not enough.”

  “Well, do what you have to do. I’ll see you whenever.”

  After I finished talking to Hy, I decided I’d better return the calls I’d found on my home machine from Elwood and Saskia. They were bound to be worried if they didn’t hear from me.

  “Daughter,” Elwood said, “I spoke with young Will earlier. He says there was a shooting by a crazed intruder in your offices and one of your employees was wounded.”

  I should have sworn Will to secrecy.

  “Ted, my office manager. His wound isn’t serious, fortunately. No one else was hurt.”

  “You must take steps to see that no such incident happens again.”

  “Don’t worry, we intend to.”

  After a pause Elwood said, “Will also told me you are investigating some trouble on a reservation in a far northern county.”

  “It’s just a bit of historical research.”

  “Do not lie to me. It concerns the death of thousands of Native women.”

  “No, only two.”

  “Do not make me say bullshit.”

  “You’ve already said it.”

  “So I have. But you must understand—this is not an isolated problem. We have had it here in Montana too. You may have seen that the attorney general has announced he is addressing the problem. It has been going on for many years—twenty or more. I have put out inquiries on the moccasin telegraph. You will be receiving their e-mail reports soon.”

  “The moccasin telegraph is online?”

  “Perhaps because you were raised white, you think we are still sending smoke signals into the sky?”

  “No, but are you online?”

  “Elwoodtheartist@blackfoot.com.”

  I was stunned. Silent.

  Elwood said, “We old farts get around too.”

  2:15 p.m.

  Saskia’s private line was busy for some time. When I finally reached her, I said, “Have you been talking to Elwood, by any chance?”

  “Yes. He was quite concerned about your safety. I learned of the shooting on CNN and am concerned as well.”

  “You needn’t be. I was out of the city when it happened.”

  “Yes, I know. Do the police have any leads on the perpetrator?”

  I explained that the shooter had been identified and that the police were trying to establish a motive. I also said that I had spoken to Elwood and reassured him. “Does he really have an e-mail address?” I asked then.

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t even know he had a computer.”

  “He took some classes at the junior college last fall, and then he went out and bought an Apple.”

  I tried to imagine a computer setup in my father’s old cabin on the rez, then shrugged it off. Life is full of contrasts.

  “The times are changing, Sharon,” Saskia added.

  “Funny, but I’m not adapting to the changes as well as most of you older people are.”

  “Well, I could say we adapt better because we’ve attained wisdom, but that’s an old saw. Many people of my age are doddering around, repeating lifelong mistakes. The rest of us…well, we don’t care to be that way. I think you’ve adapted to change very well, but haven’t taken the time to slow down and appreciate it.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Saskia changed the subject by saying that Will had told her of my investigation in Meruk County. I gave her a brief account of the case to date, then said, “I need to ask you some questions about Native allotments.”

  “What has that to do with your investigation?”

  “I’m not sure, but I sense it does.”

  “Then trust your intuition. Shall I give you a brief rundown?”

  “Please.”

  “The allotments began in 1887 with the Dawes Act, otherwise known as the General Allotment Act, which made the Bureau of Indian Affairs responsible for Natives’ financial welfare. Ostensibly the thrust of the legislation was to bring the tribes into the country’s system of land ownership, but the desired result was the usurping of nearly one hundred million acres of tribal land by whites.”

  “My God! Which tribes were most affected?”

  “The Curtis Act of 1898 names what were then called the Five Civilized Tribes: Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole. Through the years, the list was expanded.”

  “But the land ended up belonging to whites.”

  “Much of it. The Natives didn’t want to abandon their way of living, and they resisted, but eventually the government forced them to sell out. There are still some allotments within various reservations held in trust by the government, although the laws were abolished in 1934.”

  “But either way, the Natives got screwed again.”

  She sighed. “Old story. Is there anything else you need to know?”

  “Not at the moment. I’ve been in touch with Robin, but how’s Darcy?”

  “Another old story. He’s not doing well in his new group home. Robin and I are already looking for another place to move him when he commits some atrocity to make the new place reject him. We’ve decided perhaps somewhere in the Midwest—where his reputation hasn’t preceded him.”

  “What about when you run out of the Midwest?”

  “Then we start on the East Coast. Maybe Europe. Who knows?”

  We talked of less consequential things, and after we finished our conversation, I thought about the fortunate people: people who were accomplished, educated, had their lives together. Many outsiders would suppose Saskia, a high-powered attorney who had successfully argued for Indigenous rights before the Supreme Court, led a charmed life. But then, outsiders didn’t know Darcy.

  2:40 p.m.

  My head ached, possibly due to the switch between the pure air of Meruk County and the smog that hovered over the Bay today. I had just finished taking two aspirin when Derek appeared, signaling from the doorway that I should pick up on line two.

  A woman’s voice said, “My name is Alicia Jordan. I’m a doctor in the emergency room at Santa Rosa Memorial.”

  “What can I do for you, Dr. Jordan?”

  “A young female was airlifted in yesterday afternoon, badly traumatized. I’m Meruk, and the patient appears to be too, so I contacted the Sisters, thinking it might be something they should look into. Allie Foxx referred me to you.”

  “What happened to your patient?”

  “Multiple injuries. She’d been sexually assaulted, beaten, and she may lose the sight in her right eye.”

  The words made me grimace with anger. “Who did this to her?”

  “We don’t know.”


  “Where was she found?”

  “The highway patrol picked her up in Meruk County, on Highway 9 outside Aspendale. Do you have any idea who she might be?”

  “Her name may be Sally Bee, a young woman who’s been missing for a few days now. The person to contact is Henry Howling Wolf, her partner.” I gave her his number.

  “Thank you. You’ve been a great help, Ms. McCone.”

  “I’d like to help more. I was planning to leave the city today and return to Meruk County by plane. I’ll detour to Santa Rosa first. Will you be at the hospital all day?”

  “Yes. Probably until midnight.”

  “Then I’ll see you as soon as I can get there.”

  5:43 p.m.

  Santa Rosa, the Sonoma County seat, used to be a medium-size agricultural town, but as I viewed it from the air I saw it had succumbed to urban sprawl. Shopping centers and residential developments spread out from its central core, freeway cloverleafs abounded. It seemed to be well on the way to recovery from the 2017 and 2019 wildfires that had devastated many of its neighborhoods.

  I contacted the tower at Charles M. Schulz–Sonoma County Airport, named after the famed cartoonist who’d made his home in the area, and got into the landing pattern behind a Southwest commuter flight.

  6:50 p.m.

  Alicia Jordan met me at the front desk of Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital, in a large modern complex near the city center. She was about my age, slender, keen eyed, with shoulder-length black hair and high cheekbones.

  “I’m so glad you could come, Ms. McCone,” she said. “I got in touch with Mr. Howling Wolf and he confirmed from my description of the patient that she is Sally Bee. He was very upset, naturally. He’s on the way here, but it’s a long drive, and he won’t be here until late tonight.”

  “How is she today?”

  “Better, more lucid.” Alicia sighed. “We can treat the physical damage, as severe as it is, but I can’t get a handle on how to reach her emotionally.”

  “It might be best if you didn’t tell me too much more until I’ve seen her.”

  “Right. First impressions and so forth.”

  During a wait for an elevator and then the ride upstairs, Alicia told me she had been born in Meruk County fifty years ago but raised in Santa Rosa, and that she had watched her surroundings turn into a wine-and-tourism attraction. “There’re Peanuts statues all over downtown—some of them are pretty ugly. Charles Schulz was a great cartoonist, but people give short shrift to our other outstanding citizen, Luther Burbank.”