Lost Birds: A Leaphorn, Chee & Manuelito Novel (A Leaphorn, Chee & Manuelito Novel, 9)Kindle

1

Joe Leaphorn awoke a little past 7:00 a.m. to a steady, irritating noise. He rolled over, pressed the pillow against his ears, and tried to ignore it.

A moment later, he realized the unceasing beat came from his home phone, a phone that, thanks to cell phones, hardly ever rang. He wondered if it had also awakened his housemate Louisa, who he hoped was dreaming in the other bedroom.

Unable to dismiss the irritation, he sat up, reached for his bathrobe, and trotted to the kitchen, where the phone hung on the wall. He answered the call, feeling stiff, tired, and grumpy. What an unfortunate way to start a Saturday.

The male voice on the other end of the line sounded nervous.

“Lieutenant Leaphorn, this is Cecil Bowlegs. Remember me? I’m glad I was finally able to get in touch with you.”

Among his growing list of pet peeves, Leaphorn had an asterisk on any question that started with “remember.”

The man on the phone didn’t wait for Leaphorn to say, “No, I don’t remember you.”

“I understand that you are a private investigator. That’s why I’m contacting you now. I need some help.”

“First tell me how I know you.” Leaphorn wondered how his number, the number he never gave out except to friends and fellow officers, had gotten into this Cecil person’s hands.

“We met a long time ago, sir, when I was just a boy. You worked a case that involved my older brother, George Bowlegs. Years ago, when George ran away, you were kind to me. You gave me your card, and you wrote this number on the back.” He paused. “I tried the station number first, and they told me you had retired, but that you sometimes helped people with investigations.”

“Why are you calling now, though? It’s too early. Make it quick.”

“My wife is missing. She been missing for almost three weeks. We’ve looked for her, got the police involved. They seem to have given up on our case.” He rattled off her age, height, weight, and the fact that she had a blue eagle tattoo on her left wrist. “I called you because I don’t know what else to do. Because you found my brother, I thought . . .”

Leaphorn heard the man on the phone exhale. He was full of questions, but knew it was better to wait until Cecil had said his piece.

“Sir, back then, you made sure I was safe. I need to make sure my wife is safe, or . . .” The words, which had come in a rush, slowed to a stop.

Leaphorn felt instantly wide awake. “You said your name is Bowlegs?”

“Yes, sir. Cecil Bowlegs. I hope you’ll help me.”

“This was Zuni, right? Shalako?” Leaphorn remembered the frigid weather and the warmth of the people who lived in the pueblo. He recalled the night-long chanting and drumming, the appearances of the dancers in the sacred costumes, and the soul-stirring ceremony.

“Well, Zuni is where you discovered George’s body. My dad and I lived closer to Ramah. When he died, you helped me get a fresh start. You cared about me and my brother. I never forgot your kindness or how smart you were.”

With the prompts, Leaphorn clearly recalled the tragic case, one of the first in his long career. He remembered finding the murdered boy as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. He had looked evil in the eye, and neither evil nor Leaphorn had blinked.

“Why did you wait three weeks to call me at the crack of dawn on a Saturday?”

“The three weeks? That’s a long story. But I called you so early today because I’ve got to get to work, and I figured you’d be home now.”

Leaphorn remembered Cecil as a shy, quiet child, a boy small for his age. His heart opened. “OK. Let’s make an appointment, and you can tell me about your wife. I’ll see if there’s something I can do for you.”

“So you’ll take the case?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Can I meet you somewhere this afternoon?”

“You’ll have to come to Window Rock.”

“I can do that after work. I’m the custodian here at Eagle Roost School, so maybe around three or—”

He was cut off by the intense noise of an explosion. The blast was loud, and it took several moments for Leaphorn to regain his composure and for the ringing in his ears to calm down.

“Cecil? Cecil? You OK?”

Silence answered.

“Cecil!”

If Cecil had called Leaphorn’s cell phone, Leaphorn could have quickly redialed, but without much to go on, Leaphorn had to use the few clues the man had given him. Cecil hadn’t said where he was when he made the call, but Leaphorn knew that Eagle Roost School was on the reservation, so he called the Navajo Police in Window Rock, his old home station, and left a message. Then he hurried down the hall to his office to look for his contact with the New Mexico State Police in Gallup. Giddi, their rescue cat, had been sleeping in the office chair, but she stood when Leaphorn entered and removed his cell phone from the charger. The cat, as cats are prone to do, decided that Leaphorn’s unexpected arrival meant it must be time to eat. She started meowing and ramped up the sound when he ignored her.

Leaphorn hadn’t talked to Captain Roger Martinez for a long time, but found his number. He hoped Martinez still worked with NMSP and, more to the point, that he would be on the job this Saturday morning.

Luck was with him. Martinez answered. Leaphorn bypassed chitchat and got to the point.

“An explosion?” Martinez sounded a bit older, but still plenty sharp. “Tell me more.”

“That’s what it sounded like. Bowlegs said he works at Eagle Roost. The school is on the Navajo Nation, but just barely. I figure that’s where he could have been when he made the call. That’s New Mexico, so it’s your jurisdiction.”

“That’s right. I’ll have someone check on it. Don’t hang up.” The phone went dead for a few moments, then Martinez was back. “How the hell are you, anyway, Joe? How’s the PI business?”

Leaphorn hated small talk, especially over the phone, but he knew it helped grow relationships. “All good. How ’bout you?”

“No use complaining. Or bragging.”

Leaphorn short-circuited the rest of what could have been a rambling conversation. “I’ve gotta run. I’m on a deadline on another case. Good luck with the explosion. Would you let me know about Bowlegs?”

“Sure. So you’re working on Saturday, just like the old days.” Martinez chuckled. “Call us if you hear anything else from Bowlegs, OK? And thanks for the tip.”

Leaphorn headed to the kitchen with the cat at his heels. He told himself that after he’d made the coffee, fed Giddi, and given his nerves time to settle, he would set worry about Cecil Bowlegs aside and get to work. He had accepted a complicated case he should have said no to—an adopted woman’s quest for her biological family, relatives she believed could be Navajo.

He started the coffeepot, his morning ritual, and added cream and sugar to Louisa’s empty cup, a mug emblazoned with the Northern Arizona Lumberjack logo, while he waited for the magic morning elixir to brew. The logo reminded him that as eager as she was to get back to her research, Louisa missed teaching and the warm interaction she’d had with the students on the Flagstaff campus. He poured the fresh coffee, took it down the hall, and knocked on her door.

“Come in, come in. I’m awake, and I’ve been smelling that coffee.” Louisa was sitting up in bed in her green nightgown. “I had a restless night. Travel always does that to me. Too many time zones. How about you?”

“I’m OK.” He sat her mug on her nightstand. “I hope that phone call didn’t wake you.”

“What call?” She smiled at him. “I heard you chattering in there. I thought you must be talking in your sleep.”

“Do I do that?”

“You do.”

He felt the worry on his face.

“But don’t fret about it. You’re always talking in Navajo, and I’m not good enough yet to decipher what you’re mumbling.” She sipped the coffee and put the mug down so the logo faced her. “What was the call about?’

He shrugged. “Someone wanted to hire me as PI.” He could tell she wanted more, but he didn’t feel like talking.

“Wanted to hire you, eh? And you told him you had retired so you could travel more with me, right?”

“No. We got disconnected. Stay tuned.”

She grabbed her coffee again. “This is good. Is it the Kona we brought from Hawaii?”

“Yes.” He smiled at her.

The trip he and Louisa had taken combined sightseeing with a series of interviews for her research on parallels in beliefs about spirituality among different indigenous people. They had arrived back in New Mexico well after midnight the night before. Flying from Oahu to Albuquerque took about nine and a half hours. Added to that was the time needed to walk through the terminal to the baggage claim, get the shuttle to Louisa’s car, and leave the airport for Interstate 40. Then came the three-hour drive from Albuquerque, the closest major airport to their home in Window Rock, Arizona.

Their home. He thought about that pronoun again. The idea comforted him. He was happy to be home, back in the high desert where his roots had grown deep. He counted his blessings. Most widowers his age lacked the energizing touch of female companionship unless the woman was a daughter or a sister. He had neither, but Louisa’s warm presence kept him sane and made him happy.

He worked for an hour, and then they shared a breakfast of Louisa’s special oatmeal. He washed dishes and retreated down the hall to his office to get back to a case he had set aside during his vacation. He’d promised the client a report, and the clock was ticking. Bowlegs had done him a favor by hustling him out of bed.

He pulled up the case file on his computer and then extracted the associated photos and other documentation that weren’t digital from his desk drawer. He spread the photos and papers on the desktop in front of him. Stella Brown had contacted him after she had exhausted all the obvious steps for finding her biological family. His client looked like an artist’s rendition of the classic Navajo woman—silky hair as dark as a raven’s wing, large, clear russet eyes, skin the color of light milk chocolate, and a tall, slim frame. She told him her third-grade teacher had called her “our special little Indian.” She had always known that her parents had adopted her and that a lawyer had handled the arrangements. They said she was their chosen daughter, and that they loved her from the moment they saw her.