“One mo question. Insurance?”
“Everything in the house is insured. But the box?” Rafferty sighed. “No. Because I sent it anonymously, I couldn’t insure it. Everything I have ever mailed through the post office from the gallery always has arrived safely. Every time, for more than ten years.” His voice vibrated, and Leaphorn felt the anger. “Everything, I guess, except this precious dress. Was the box damaged when it arrived?”
“No.”
“Then, Mr. Detective and Madame Professor, shipping insurance would not have made a difference. You are dealing with a case of theft.”
As they followed him toward the front door, Leaphorn thought of how to pose a complicated question with the fewest words. “I nee to axe another kestin bout da gifs.”
“Excuse me?” Rafferty frowned. “Was anything else missing?”
“Yes.”
Louisa answered before he could find the words. “A bracelet by a Navajo artist named Peshlakai.”
“I think your friend has a robber on her staff.” Rafferty opened the big front door.
“May we be in touch if the museum has a question about something you’ve sent?”
He hesitated, then extracted a slim black wallet and handed each of them a white business card. “I trust you to protect my anonymity. Understand?”
“Of course.”
Leaphorn nodded slightly and put the card in his pocket.
Rafferty closed the door behind them.
As they drove away, Mary passed them driving the white Mercedes, headed toward the house.
Louisa said, “We’ve got a lot to talk about on the way to Flagstaff.”
17
Jim Chee returned to the Chinle station for another look at the burglary reports. If he learned as much as he could today, he could save himself a drive tomorrow and use the phone and computer instead of gasoline and boot leather to continue the investigation.
This time, he noticed more similarities in the crimes. With the exception of Mr. Natachi’s case, all the victims reported that the break-ins happened on a weekday while they were away from home. Chee checked a calendar. Each burglary was on Tuesday or Thursday morning. Interesting. Did the criminal have a job that gave him those days off? Perhaps he or she was someone from outside the community who had reason to be in Chinle on those days and added crime to the schedule?
Chee noticed, again, that the reports mentioned no “vandalism.” Whoever committed the thefts knew where to look. Some of the places were as obvious as jewelry boxes. Some were more original. One woman, Mrs. Morgan, kept her treasures in a cookie jar on the kitchen counter. Another used a large coffee can in the refrigerator. He wondered if the thief was selling the items to someone who specialized in old Navajo jewelry or exchanging everything taken for drugs. He made a note to follow up with Indian jewelry dealers.
The only case that didn’t fit the pattern was Mr. Natachi’s. Chee remembered the house and realized that Mr. Natachi’s television had not been stolen from its place of honor in the living room. The intruder left the valuable rodeo buckle, also in plain view, untouched.
There was, he thought, no such thing as a victimless crime, and these burglaries disturbed his sense of hozho, of balance.
His cell phone buzzed and he glanced at it. It was Elsie. “I called the hospital to check on Mr. Natachi, but they won’t tell me anything. I called Ryana, but she didn’t answer. So I called you. How’s the old one doing?”
Chee heard the worry in her voice. “He was resting comfortably when I checked and the nurse told me he seems a bit stronger.”
“I’m glad. Some of the people here have been asking, you know, the staff and his buddies who come to the senior center. Mrs. Morgan told me to let him know she’s praying for him.”
“Mrs. Morgan? Was she one of the people who lost something in a burglary?”
“Poor thing. Her great-grandfather made that necklace.”
Chee thought about that. “What about other people at the center?”
“My goodness, it has been awful. So many of these elderlies lost things. Do you want to know who they are?”
“Sure.” He wasn’t surprised when her list matched the reports. “Do you have programs at the center every day?”
“No, we can’t afford that. Just twice a week.”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays?”
“That’s right.” Elsie made a clicking sound. “I hope you can get their things back.”
“Me, too. So I guess Nicky’s program didn’t help much?”
“It should have. We brought him in before the burglaries.”
Chee was closing his computer when his phone buzzed again. This time it was Bernie. He realized he had worked way past dinner and hadn’t called.
But that wasn’t what was on her mind.
Bernie left Agent Berke to finish his examination of the trunk and went back in the house. A few moments later, she saw Berke pick up a piece of paper, study it, then put it back in the trunk.
Bernie motioned Ryana over to the couch and spoke softly. “I need to ask you about something before Berke comes back in.”
The second agent started toward them.
“Give us a minute.”
He frowned, then returned to his post at the door.
Ryana whispered, “What’s the question?”
“Someone mentioned to Sergeant Chee that you’d made some movies. My sister worked with a guy who knows a lot about video and he helped her find the work you’d done. And—”
“Don’t say anything else.” Ryana grasped the arm of the couch so hard her fingernails turned pale. “I know what I did. I was stupid.”
“Did Nicky have any connection to that?”
“No.” Ryana sucked in her breath. “Are you going to talk about the movies with these guys?”
“Do the movies have any tie-in to what’s in the car?”
“How could they? I don’t even know what’s out there.”
Bernie nodded. For once, she knew Ryana was telling the truth.
Berke came through the front door with a look of determination. He and his partner conferred briefly, and then the other man went out to stand by the car.
Berke spoke to Ryana. “Tell me about the items out there.”
“A spare tire, a jack, maybe some jumper cables.”
“Don’t get smart. I found a note addressed to you. Do you know what it said?”
She shook her head. “Like I told you. I never opened the trunk.”
Berke twisted his lips into a smirk. “I memorized it for you: ‘Ryana, you’ll know what to do with this. N.’”
“Know what to do with what? What was in there?” Ryana’s voice had a touch of panic. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Instead of speaking to the question, the agent gave her a look reserved for idiots or young children. “You have more information about Michael Debois and how and why he died than you’re telling us. Playing dumb doesn’t work with me.”
Bernie sucked in her breath. Michael was the name Bigman had passed on to her, the name he had heard Agent Johnson say when she saw the dead person near the running trail. And the name Johnson had mentioned to her.