Part 32 (1/2)
”Fraud? We never represented them as anything other than what they were-pots made by Indian artists.”
”You didn't say they were Anasazi?”
”No. We circulated pictures without saying anything except that they were for sale. And they got a chance to look at what they were getting before they put their money down. If they jumped to the wrong conclusions...” He shrugged. ”Caveat emptor.”
”What about your spat with David the night he died?” Caleb asked Irene. ”You were very convincing. Was it staged?”
She blushed. ”Thanks. Yes. We thought a fuss would get free publicity for David's show and call attention to our 'Anasazi' artifacts. There wouldn't have been any point if it wasn't convincing. We even had a reporter on the guest list. The plan would have worked if someone hadn't murdered David.”
”A reporter?” Thinnes said.
”She must've caved in to pressure from someone to hush the whole thing up, because there wasn't a word about it on the society pages, and the only thing in the rest of the paper about David made his death seem like just another semianonymous urban tragedy.” Irene looked at Thinnes. ”After David died, Kent pretended not to know about our plan or what happened to all the fake Anasazi pots David had squirreled away.”
”We think he might be selling off the inventory,” Dennison said. ”But we have no way of knowing. Each part of the operation was separate. David would bring things to me for my opinion, or have people call me, for advice on how something should be, without giving me their names. David was the linchpin. He had all the names in his head. When he died, they were lost.”
”Who got the money?”
”We all got a little. Various foundations got anonymous gifts. How he did it sometimes was, he'd show a piece to some rich collector and tell him it would be delivered when his check to AIM, or the Smithsonian, or the Heard Museum cleared.”
Irene added, ”We weren't ever in it for the money, so we decided to keep quiet, especially since Kent threatened to tell Matt's wife about us if we didn't just go away. Whatever Kent has in mind undoubtedly involves him getting rich, and probably involves fraud-which we've carefully avoided. But since it'll have the same effect on black-market profits as the original plan, we decided to just bow out.”
Thinnes said, ”Tell us about Thomas Redbird.”
”I know him slightly,” Irene said. ”He does deliveries and odd jobs for David...Did.”
”Did?”
”Now that David's gone, I don't imagine there'll be much work for him.”
Thinnes turned to Dennison. ”Doctor?”
”I don't believe I've met him.”
Thinnes pulled out Redbird's photo. ”Look familiar?”
Dennison shook his head.
”What did he do?” Irene asked.
”Got himself killed.”
Irene's shock seemed genuine. Dennison was indifferent. Why not? If you didn't know him personally, he was just another Chicago statistic.
They said that all they knew about Harrison Wingate was what David told them; he was a land-raper who never let archeological remains get in the way of a project. They agreed David couldn't have proved that or he would have turned his evidence over to the police, and were pretty sure that was why he was killed.
”What did you mean when you told your father Bisti was a witch and someone turned his evil around on him?” Thinnes asked Irene.
She made a disgusted face. ”I was angry. I was just mouthing off. I didn't mean it. Ah-David could be a real jerk, sometimes.”
Remembering the question Caleb had asked Lauren Bisti, he said, ”What's the significance of the cougar in Navajo mythology?”
Dennison answered. ”In the Bead Chant, members of the cat family give medicinal plants to the People. In other connotations they're snitches or messengers.”
”Like the Greek G.o.d Mercury,” Irene said. ”David loved that.”
”Though in Navajo tradition,” Dennison added, ”Coyote also performs some of Mercury's functions. Like Mercury, Coyote's a thief, and he's responsible for mischief and chaos.”
”David had to have intended for people to make the connection,” Irene said, ”between cougar as a messenger, and artist as messenger.”
”So who killed the messenger?”
When they were back in the car, heading north on the Drive, Thinnes said, ”What can you tell me about Navajo witches?”
”Most of what I know, I got from reading Hillerman's novels,” Caleb said. ”I gather you have to understand Navajo philosophy to comprehend witchcraft.”
”Can you put it in a nutsh.e.l.l?”
”They don't have an organized religion with formal doctrine. It's more a way of life-in harmony with others and with Nature-like the Tao.”
Thinnes decided not to ask what that was. And he stifled the urge to ask Caleb to get to the point.
”If I understand it correctly, it's something like the Force in Star Wars. When you follow the Navajo way, the Force is with you. If you embrace the Dark Side, you're a witch or skinwalker or Navajo wolf-all metaphors for an evil person.”
Sixty-Two.
The interview room was lit by overhead fluorescents. Three of its walls were painted cinder block, with hard, molded plastic seats attached to the walls by brackets; the fourth held the door and a one-way mirror window. Xaviar Ocampo was ”hanging on the wall”-handcuffed to a giant staple between two of the seats. Outside the room, Thinnes stood with Oster, Viernes, and Rossi, and watched him.
”What page are we on here?” Rossi demanded.
”He's facing a number of state and federal gun charges at this point,” Thinnes answered. ”We think he'll finger John Buck's killer to avoid adding murder one.”
Rossi made a face. ”When're you gonna come up with a suspect in the Downtown Indian case? That's the one generating all the heat. I'm still getting a call a week on that one. Who cares who killed some drunk breed?”
Thinnes turned to Oster, as if Rossi hadn't spoken, and said, ”Let me work on this guy.” Oster nodded. ”Viernes, would you get hold of Columbo?”
”Sure.” Viernes turned away without a word to Rossi.
Oster pulled his notebook out of his pocket.
As Thinnes sauntered toward the interview room, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Rossi stood flat-footed while the others walked away, then he hurried off.
Thinnes entered the interview room. ”Mr. Ocampo, I'm Detective Thinnes.” Even though he'd heard Ryan run through the drill, he asked, ”You've been read your rights?” He'd come to the force after Mapp, Miranda, and Escobedo, so he'd never found the landmark decisions to be a particular hindrance. He had heard veteran officers-good men-swear that the controversial decisions actually made for better policing. Not that they'd say so at a gathering of cops.