LITMIR.BIZ

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may have gone to some peyote meetings to meet people, to make contact with craftspeople and clients, but he wasn’t selling on the black market, I’m sure. I mean, I think I would have known if he was doing something illegal. We were very close.”

      “How close?”

      “Close enough to know if he were selling stolen property.”

      Watching her performance, he began to wonder if she had been in love with Soto. Naturally all the women would fall for someone like Soto. He was handsome, slick, and obviously rich.

      “Excuse me. I need to look around the office. If you don’t mind.”

      Taking the hint, she stood up with her box of tissues. Then she turned and walked out.

      He fidgeted at the desk. Soto’s office was a study in black and white: black furniture, white walls. Even the expensive Navajo rugs hanging on the wall were woven of black and gray wool. The room needed some color, he decided. Surely, with a gallery filled with colorful Indian arts—rugs, pottery, and jewelry—Soto could have added a splash of color to the room. Even one of the kachinas behind the counter would have helped.

      He went over to the emergency exit and threw open the back door, exposing the narrow brick alley. It contrasted sharply with the slick interior of Soto’s office. He studied the crumbling brick and adobe walls, splotched with layers of mud stucco and covered with graffiti.

      The patched, discolored walls, even the overturned trash cans in the alley cheered him slightly, though he couldn’t say exactly why. The slogans spray-painted on the alley walls were as ugly here as they were elsewhere around the city. Throw open the door, look underneath the glitz, and what do you find? “Go back to Texas.” “Fuck you, Anglo pigs!” Everywhere the same tensions, sometimes hidden, sometimes not.

      He walked back to the desk and put up his feet, thinking. He’d already examined the contents of Soto’s desk, including computer printouts listing each item in Sabado’s inventory by number and description, date and price of purchase, and date and price of sale, if sold. None of the entries on these lists looked suspicious, which probably meant that Soto kept his black market activities off-list. The desk also contained a collection of business cards from art galleries in New Mexico and Arizona that Soto may have done business with. Odds and ends. No mention of the ahayu:da.

      One thing he did find was a locked broom closet at the end of the hallway, which made him wonder why anyone would lock a broom closet. When he asked to open the door, the LeClair woman said she didn’t have a key, that Soto kept the only key to the closet. That meant he would have to get a warrant and a locksmith to open the door one way or another. He could do all that tomorrow when he had more time and patience.

      Still, the possibility that he might be overlooking something else, something obvious, kept him from leaving. He checked his watch. Still enough time to drive out to Hyde Park Estates, where Soto had recently purchased a new condo, and make it home by six thirty.

      His wife hated for him to be late for dinner, even after all these years of police work. Estelle had never gotten used to his irregular hours. For thirty years she’d stubbornly refused to reconcile herself to the unpredictable and often inconvenient disruptions of daily routine that came with his job.

      Maybe non-acceptance was her form of acceptance. Did that make any sense?

      While he considered what to do next, he heard voices coming from the front of the gallery. Wanda was explaining to someone that the gallery was closed for the day. “No, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave,” she said, raising her voice. Apparently her words had no effect, because the very next moment she shouted, “Wait! Where do you think you’re going? Stop or I’ll call the police.”

      Had she forgotten about him? He was, after all, the police.

      He listened to the approaching footsteps. Loud, angry footsteps. Suddenly two men burst into the office, with Wanda following closely on their heels. The Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap tipped him off even before he got a good look at the faces of Suino and Naranjo. Immediately his spirits sank. He would never make it home by six thirty now.

      Estelle would not be happy tonight.

      The two Indians paused momentarily when they saw him sitting with his feet up on the desk. Naranjo looked nervous, but not Suino. Suino began to search the office, as if he didn’t exist. An invisible man.

      “What the hell do you want?” He was not happy with this unwanted intrusion.

      “I told them we were closed, but they wouldn’t listen,” Wanda said.

      Suino ignored her. “What do you think we want? We’re looking for our ahayu:da. We didn’t find it in Soto’s room at La Fonda, so now we’ve come to check his gallery.”

      He took his feet off the desk and sat up straight. “What are you talking about? Soto lives in Hyde Park Estates.”

      Suino looked at him blankly, a look of incredulity on his young face.

      “Not exactly,” Wanda interjected, embarrassed for him. “That’s a mistake. The new directory lists his address as Hyde Park Estates, but his condo isn’t quite finished, so he’s living at La Fonda. Had been living at La Fonda.”

      Suino looked at him. “You didn’t know that?”

      He ignored the question. He stared at Suino for a few moments, then changed the subject. “I forget. Where did you say you were staying in Santa Fe?”

      Naranjo answered, sucking in his big belly. “Tesuque Pueblo.”

      He smiled. By his calculation Tesuque Pueblo was less than ten miles from Jacoñita—logistically, an insignificant distance for a murderer bold enough to stalk his victim at a peyote ceremony. A wolfman, perhaps. Or someone pretending to be a wolfman.

      “Both of you stayed at Tesuque Pueblo last night? Is that correct?”

      Naranjo nodded.

      “So what?” Suino wanted to know.

      “I’ll tell you so what.” He stood up from the desk and walked toward Suino. “Someone murdered Michael Soto last night at Jacoñita, a few miles from Tesuque Pueblo.”

      “Yeah? Did Soto have the ahayu:da with him?”

      ‘We don’t know if he had the ahayu:da with him, but the person who killed him went through his car trying to find it. So tell me, were you in Jacoñita last night?”

      “Then it’s still missing.”

      “Answer my question!” he shouted.

      “How can you find anything sitting around here?”

      Losing control, he grabbed Suino by the T-shirt and slammed him back against the wall, cracking the plaster. He twisted the collar around Suino’s neck, choking him.

      Suino grabbed his hand and tried to push him away, but he slammed him back into the wall again. Plaster showered the floor.

      The sudden violence surprised Wanda, who screamed and ran out of the office.

      Naranjo pleaded with him. “Don’t hurt him, please. He’s just a smart-ass kid.”

      He felt the blood pounding through his veins, and he heard the muffled voice of Naranjo talking to him. It took a moment, but he managed to control his impulse to smash Suino’s face. Finally he let go of the T-shirt, and then tried to smooth the twisted fabric by patting it against the man’s chest.

      It had been a long time since he’d lost his temper like that. He didn’t like the feeling. He needed to do a better job of controlling his emotions.

      Suino stared impassively at him, pure hatred in his eyes.

      “Come with me—both of you. We’re going back to La Fonda.” He brushed past Wanda, who stood watching from the safety of the doorway, then marched across the wooden floor of the gallery. He heard Suino and Naranjo following along behind.

      Walking

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