Читать книгу Navajo's Woman - Beverly Barton - Страница 9

Andi Stephens wandered about inside her house, meandering from room to room in search of something to do—something to occupy her mind. Maybe she should have stayed at the store and taken inventory or priced items for the upcoming sale, but her assistant Barbara Redhorse usually took care of those matters. When she had decided to remain in New Mexico after her initial visit over five years ago, she had needed something to do, something that would occupy her time and also involve her in learning more about her Navajo roots. Her good friend, Joanna Blackwood, had been the one to suggest opening a Native American Arts and Crafts store in Gallup. So, she had delved in to her sizable inheritance from her grandfather and invested in a local business, which actually turned a profit the very first year. But today even her flourishing store couldn’t keep her focused. Having been restless and slightly on edge for the past hour, she couldn’t seem to relax. She had taken a shower and changed into her soft cotton pajamas, hoping that would put her in the mood for sleep. But she was too wired. And the odd thing was, she wasn’t quite sure why. It was as if something was wrong, but she didn’t know what. She had been prone to having uneasy feelings ever since she’d been a child. Not that she possessed psychic abilities or anything like that. Not really. She just occasionally got a sense of foreboding. And nine times out of ten, she was right.

She was worried enough to have called to check on her mother, who lived in South Carolina. But Rosemary Stephens had been entertaining a group of society friends and hadn’t had time to say more than hello and goodbye. Andi had been tempted to telephone her stepmother who lived on the nearby Navajo Reservation, to check on her and Russ. And she had even started dialing her friend Joanna Blackwood’s number before common sense took over and she hung up the phone. Joanna was expecting her fourth child, and although the pregnancy had been perfectly normal, there was always the chance that—

Stop this! an inner voice ordered. Do you hear me? Stop borrowing trouble. If something is wrong, you’ll find out soon enough. No need to make yourself sick.

Andi found herself in her small kitchen—a bright, light room, with oak cabinets, cream walls and uncurtained windows that overlooked an enclosed backyard. Tea. She’d make herself a cup of herbal tea.

Within minutes, she removed the cup of water she’d heated in the microwave, added a raspberry tea bag and dunked it several times. She preferred her tea mild and plain.

Now what? she asked herself. Try to read? Listen to music? Watch TV? Finding herself back in the living room, she sat in her favorite seat, an oversize, hunter-green leather chair. She stretched her legs out atop the matching ottoman, took a sip of tea and considered her choices. Glancing at the mantel clock, she decided to catch the late-night news and weather.

The remote lay under a couple of magazines on the side table at her right. After several clicks, she found the local channel. But while she drank her tea, her mind wandered, so she paid little attention to the series of commercials that flickered across the twenty-six-inch screen. Ever since she’d had lunch with Joanna this past week, she’d been thinking about Joe Ornelas. Joanna had casually mentioned that Joe, her husband J.T.’s cousin, had sent her a baby gift, with a sweet note attached.

“I can’t believe he picked out that adorable little frilly dress himself,” Joanna had said.

“Maybe his girlfriend chose it,” Andi had replied.

“Maybe. But J.T. says that Joe doesn’t have anyone special in his life these days.”

Yeah, sure. Like she’d believe that. Joe Ornelas wasn’t the type to live without a woman. Perhaps there was no one he considered special, but she’d bet every dime of her inheritance that living there in Atlanta, Georgia, Joe had women swarming around him like bees. She figured he probably had to beat them off with a stick. After all, Joe was a hunk. And a lot of women had a penchant for handsome Native Americans.

Oh, great! You’re batting a thousand tonight, aren’t you, she scolded herself. You go from being disturbed by uneasy feelings to mooning over a man who walked out on you five years ago. Andi Stephens, you need to get a life!

Suddenly the news story on the television caught Andi’s attention. She thought she’d heard her brother’s name mentioned. Surely, not. The newscaster was talking about a murder case.

After turning up the sound, she focused on the screen. The female news anchor switched over to a live report from the scene of a shooting in Castle Springs, a small town northeast of Gallup and situated within the boundaries of the Navajo Reservation.

“According to his neighbors, Bobby Yazzi, the murder victim, was believed to be involved in selling drugs,” the male news reporter said, while the cameraman gave a wide-angle shot of the victim’s apartment and of residents milling around on the street. “Although the police haven’t released any information about the murder itself, our sources have told us that some neighbors saw two young men running out of the duplex-apartment and into the alley behind their houses. The police have not confirmed this, nor have they identified the young men, but we’re told that the eyewitnesses know who the men are and identified them as Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn, both Navajo youths.”

Andi set her tea aside, then listened carefully, trying to absorb every tidbit of information. How was this possible? What were Russ and Eddie doing anywhere near a man like Bobby Yazzi? Russ might be a bit of a hell-raiser, but he really wasn’t a bad kid. He was a boy without a father. At sixteen, he was rebelling against his mother, his Native American heritage and anything that even hinted of adult authority.

Five years ago, her half-brother’s life had been vastly altered, just as hers had been, when their father committed suicide. Andi had suspected that Russ wanted to distance himself from what friends and family considered his father’s shame. Now this had happened. What could it mean?

She had to contact Doli. If her stepmother didn’t know about this, then Andi would have to be the one to break the news to her. Poor Doli. She’d felt lost and confused trying to raise a strong-willed boy without a man to guide him. She would blame herself for any trouble Russ had landed in this time, as she had numerous times in the past.

“This just in,” the newscaster reported. “The police have put out an APB on Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn. Both young men are wanted for questioning in the shooting death of Bobby Yazzi.”

Poor boys, Andi thought. They had to be frightened. Scared out of their minds. If they had witnessed the murder, then whoever killed Bobby would know that her brother and Eddie could identify him.

Just as Andi stood, the telephone rang. With an unsteady hand, she lifted the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Andi, this is J.T. By any chance, have you been watching TV or listening to the radio?”

“Yes, I heard. Russ and Eddie are wanted for questioning.” Andi gripped the phone tightly. “What were they doing at Bobby Yazzi’s apartment? Neither of them are into drugs.”

“I have no idea,” J.T. said. “Have you spoken with Doli?”

“No, I was just going to call her, but— Have you spoken to Eddie’s parents?”

“Yeah.” J.T. paused, took a deep breath and continued. “I’m on my way over to Castle Springs now to meet Ed and Kate at the police station. Do you want me to contact Doli?”

“No, I’ll call her and then I’ll drive over to the reservation and stay with her until we find out what’s going on.”

Andi said goodbye, hung up the receiver and huffed out a long, loud sigh. Her uneasy feeling had proven to be right, once again. Her unerringly accurate premonition of trouble had been fulfilled. That sense of foreboding had, in the past, forecast sickness, death and accidents, usually involving someone close to her. She wished that just this once she could have been wrong.

Russ hot-wired the old truck, a rusty relic from the fifties, but one that purred like a kitten when the motor turned over.

“Damn it, Russ, this is stealing!” Eddie, who sat alongside his friend in the cab of the truck, looked from side to side out the windows, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey, we have to get some kind of transportation, don’t we?” Russ shifted gears, eased the truck backward and quickly maneuvered it onto the road. “We can’t get very far on foot and we can’t keep hiding out here in town. We’re taking Mr. Lovato’s truck in order to save our lives.”

“Yeah, well, the police will call what we’re doing stealing.”

“I call it borrowing,” Russ reiterated.

On the road out of Castle Springs, they met several trucks and a couple of cars, but traffic was slow and no one followed them. Eddie rolled down a window and the cool night wind whipped his long hair into his face.

He didn’t know what the heck he was doing here, on the run with Russ. Everything had happened so fast, too fast for him to think straight, to reason the right and wrong, the good and the bad. If he’d had any sense at all, he’d have vetoed the idea of going to Bobby Yazzi’s to pick up some beer. Everybody knew that Bobby could provide not only the drug of your choice, but liquor of any kind to underage drinkers. When Russ’s date, Jewel Begay, had made the suggestion to pick up some beer and Russ had agreed, Eddie hadn’t wanted to come off sounding like some scared little boy. After all, he’d had a date to impress. If Jewel hadn’t arranged the double date, he wouldn’t have had a prayer of going out with a girl like Martina. Pretty and popular and from a good Navajo family.

When his parents found out he’d been at Bobby Yazzi’s, what would they think? God, he hated even imagining their reaction. Their eldest son, of whom they were so proud, involved in a murder!

Russ flipped on the radio and fiddled with the dials, zipping from one station to another, finally settling on one. A country hit whined down to the last stanza, then news on the half hour began.

“There’s an update on the murder case we told you about at ten,” the announcer said. “Two Navajo youths— Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn, are wanted for questioning in regard to the Bobby Yazzi murder that occurred around eight o’clock tonight. Both Lapahie and Whitehorn were seen running from the victim’s apartment shortly after neighbors heard several shots fired.

“Lapahie, the son of former Navajo police captain, Russell Lapahie, Sr., is a resident of Castle Springs and well known in town. The other youth, Whitehorn, lives on a sheep ranch between Castle Springs and Trinidad. Police aren’t saying if the boys are suspects in the case, but they have issued an APB on the two.”

Russ shut off the radio and increased the speed of the truck. “Hell! I knew the police would think I did it. With my record of trouble making and my father’s reputation ruined because your uncle Joe ratted on him, I’m as good as dead.”

“The police just want us for questioning,” Eddie said. “I think we should go back, turn ourselves in and tell them what happened.”

“Do you honestly think they’re going to believe us?”

“They might.”

“Yeah, well, even if they do—and I don’t think they will—what about the guy who really killed Bobby? He won’t have any trouble killing both of us to keep us quiet.”

“Jewel can back up your story. She went in at Bobby’s with you.”

“Jewel was so scared that she ran, didn’t she? She didn’t hang around to see if we got out okay. She’s not going to want to get involved. She could easily deny having seen or heard anything, just to cover her own butt.”

As much as Eddie hated to admit that Russ was right, he nodded his head in agreement. Being on the run from the police and from a ruthless killer wasn’t what Eddie wanted. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t turn against his best friend, could he?

“We’re in this together, right?” Russ cut Eddie a sideways glance.

“Yeah. Right.”

Joe Ornelas popped the caps off six bottles, placed the open beer on a tray and carried the refreshments out from behind the bar that separated his compact kitchen from his combination dining and living room. Hunter Whitelaw and Jack Parker still sat at the table where they’d been playing cards. Matt O’Brien picked up the TV remote and said something about checking ball scores on ESPN. Wolfe stood by the windows, his back to the rest of the Dundee agents, as he stared out into the rainy Atlanta night. Ellen Denby, their boss lady, came toward Joe, smiling.

“Need some help?” she asked.

“Just help yourself,” he replied, holding the tray out to her. “What’s up with Wolfe?” Joe nodded toward the solitary figure by the double windows that overlooked Salle Street. “This is the first time he’s taken me up on my offer to play cards. I had begun to think he was avoiding our company.”

Ellen lifted a bottle from the tray. “He knows all of us a little better than he did a few months ago. I think working closely with you and Hunter on rescuing Egan Cassidy’s kid might have helped.” Ellen glanced over her shoulder at Wolfe, who seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. “He’s a loner if I ever saw one.”

“Where’s that beer?” Hunter threw up his hand and motioned to Joe to come to him. “While you’re making brownie points with the boss, I’m dying of thirst.” Hunter laughed. Long, low, deep, grunting chuckles.

As Joe passed the sofa where Matt sat engrossed in the sportscast, Joe handed him a beer, then headed toward the table. He placed the tray in the center, which only five minutes earlier had held the night’s winnings. After Jack and Hunter grabbed their beverages, Joe picked up the two remaining bottles and walked toward the man who had separated himself from the others.

“Beer?” Joe held up a bottle in offering.

Wolfe turned slowly, nodded, accepted the beer and said, “Thanks.”

“I’m glad you decided to join us tonight,” Joe told him.

“I appreciate your asking me.” Wolfe lifted the bottle to his lips and downed a hefty swig.

“Feel free to join us anytime. The players change, depending on who’s in town, and we rotate apartments. Next week, it’s Ellen’s turn.”

“Uh-huh.”

Joe had thought himself a man of few words, but compared to Wolfe he was a regular chatterbox. The others had speculated about the reclusive agent, who’d been with Dundee’s Private Security and Investigation less than a year. Unlike the rest of them, who’d been hired by Ellen, Wolfe held the distinction of having been chosen by the owner of the agency, Sam Dundee. No one knew anything about Wolfe—not even Ellen. But she had quickly ascertained that the man had undeniable abilities. He was not only an expert marksman, but he had a knowledge of every aspect of the business, from weapons to strategy, from equipment to psychology.

“Damn!” Matt jumped up from the sofa. “I just lost fifty bucks on the Braves game.”

“That’s what you get for gambling,” Ellen said.

“Look who’s talking,” Matt told her. “You lost thirty dollars tonight playing cards. Hell, add the fifty I lost on the ball game to the forty-five I lost here and I’m nearly a hundred dollars poorer.”

“We had no idea what an expert card player Wolfe was,” Hunter said. “He took us all to the cleaners.”

“Are you sure you’ve never been a professional?” Matt asked, looking directly at Wolfe.

Wolfe shook his head. “No.”

“Ah, the guy’s just good at cards, the way he is at everything else.” Hunter rose from his chair to his full six-four height.

Joe noted a pained expression on Wolfe’s face, as if Hunter’s comment had somehow hurt him. But surely, no one would be hurt by a sincere compliment, would they?

“I should be going.” Wolfe placed his half-empty bottle down on the tray atop the table.

“Yeah, me, too.” Matt downed the last drops of his beer, then tossed the empty bottle to Joe, who caught it effortlessly in his left hand while continuing to hold his own bottle in his right.

“Yeah, it’s about time I called it a night,” Jack Parker said in his deep, Texas drawl, then scooted back his chair and got up.

The telephone rang just as Wolfe opened the apartment door. Not looking back, he made a hasty exit. Jack Parker waved goodbye and followed Wolfe. Matt lingered in the doorway.

“Need a ride home, Denby?” He smiled, showing a set of movie-star teeth.

“You know Hunter’s taking me home,” she replied.

“Yeah, I know, but you can’t shoot a guy for trying.”

“Our Ellen can and would shoot you.” Hunter chuckled.

“You guys hold it down,” Joe told them as he lifted the telephone receiver. “Yeah, Ornelas here.”

“Matt, you can give up trying,” Ellen said, smiling. “I don’t date Dundee employees.”

“So how come Hunter can escort you around and I can’t?” Matt leaned against the door.

Joe covered the receiver with his hand, gave his companions a stern look and repeated, “Hold it down. I can’t hear what my sister’s saying.”

“Because Hunter is a gentleman and you’re not,” Ellen said softly, then nodded and waved to Joe, letting him know that she’d heard him, understood and would be quiet now.

Joe removed his hand from the mouthpiece. “Sorry about that, Kate, but I’ve got a few friends over tonight.”

“You must come home, Joseph.” Kate’s voice held an edge of near hysteria and it wasn’t normal for his sweet, easygoing sister to be this upset.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Eddie. He’s in big trouble. We need you very badly.”

“What kind of trouble is Eddie in?”

“Trouble with the—” Kate’s voice broke “—the police.” She sighed. “He and Russ Lapahie are wanted for questioning in the murder of Bobby Yazzi, a man who is known for selling drugs to our children.”

Joe’s heartbeat accelerated. Eddie was in trouble with the police? He couldn’t imagine anything so ridiculous. Not a good kid like his eldest nephew, who was a bright student, an obedient son and a hard worker, helping his father on the ranch since he’d been not much more than a toddler.

“You said that Eddie is wanted by the police. Where is he now? Why hasn’t he turned himself in?”

“We don’t know where he is. Eddie and Russ are both missing. They’ve run away—”

Kate whimpered, and Joe knew she was struggling with her emotions, trying to not break down and cry.

“Andi says that their running makes them look guilty,” Kate said.

“Andi’s good at finding people guilty.” The mention of Andi’s name struck a disharmonious chord in Joe. He had spent five years trying to forget about the past, trying to put Andrea Stephens out of his mind.

“No, you misunderstand,” Kate told him. “Andi doesn’t think the boys are guilty. She knows they aren’t capable of murder. She simply pointed out what is so obvious—that by running, Eddie and Russ have only made matters worse for themselves.”

Ellen laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder and whispered, “Is there anything we can do?”

“Hold on, Kate.” Joe turned to Ellen. “Yeah. I’m going to need some time off. I have to go home. My nephew’s in trouble.”

“Take all the time you need,” Ellen said. “If I or the agency can help, all you have to do is call me.”

“Thanks.”

“We’ll let ourselves out.” Hunter escorted Ellen to the open door, and they and Matt waved good-night, then closed the door behind them.

“I’ll take the first flight I can get. The Dundee jet isn’t available right now. I’ll call you back when I’ve made arrangements.”

“Ed and I will meet your plane.”

“Be brave.”

“Yes, I am trying.”

Joe replaced the receiver when the dial tone hummed in his ear. He and Kate had been as close as a brother and sister could be. He was the younger sibling, but only two years separated them in age. She had married Ed Whitehorn when she was twenty and had given birth to her first child at twenty-one. The entire family had adored Eddie, such a beautiful, clever child. Until Joe had resigned from the Navajo Tribal police force and left his home in New Mexico five years ago, he and his nephew had been the best of buddies. And even now, the two spoke often on the phone. He simply could not imagine how a good boy like Eddie could be involved in anyone’s murder, even as a witness. Unless he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But why would Eddie have been anywhere near a known drug dealer? And why had the boy run away?

Russ Lapahie was the answer to all Joe’s questions. J.T. had told him that Russell’s son had been in and out of trouble ever since Russell’s death. Trouble at school, trouble at home and trouble with the law.

“Doli can’t do anything with him,” J.T. had said. “And he won’t listen to Andi, either. They’re both ‘just women,’ as far as Russ is concerned.”

Joe grunted. To think that he had been the one to advise Ed and Kate not to forbid Eddie to hang out with Russ. He had mistakenly hoped that his nephew would be a good influence on Andi’s brother. Now, it looked as if he’d been wrong. The opposite had happened.

He couldn’t deny that his bad advice had been prompted partly out of guilt. After all, if Joe had looked the other way and kept his mouth shut five years ago, when he had discovered Russell Sr. was covering up his brother-in-law’s livestock smuggling ring, his former police captain would still be alive. And Russ and Andi would still have their father. The way Joe figured it, he not only had to go home to help Eddie, but to help Russell’s son, too.

“I want those boys found!” The dark hand that slammed down on the desk bore several crisscrossed scars, reminders of a long-ago knife fight. A fight he had won. Three diamond rings sparkled on various fingers, each catching the light from the green-shaded lamp to his right.

LeCroy Lanza glowered at his subordinates, both men killers by instinct and training. In his line of work, it didn’t pay to send out a boy to do a man’s job. He wanted Russ Lapahie and Eddie Whitehorn found and taken care of so that neither boy could identify him. He’d seen Russ’s face and had laughed silently at the boy’s wide-eyed shock after he’d witnessed the murder. He had seen the shadow of another person behind Russ, but LeCroy hadn’t been able to make out much. At the time, he’d thought the second kid was female. Apparently, it had been Eddie.

In retrospect, he realized that he should have sent someone else to take care of Bobby Yazzi, the two-timing little son of a bitch. But LeCroy Lanza had a reputation to uphold. He was known for taking care of his problems personally. And Bobby had become a major problem. Who had he thought he was—lying and cheating, stealing from the man who’d set him up in business? Nobody cheated LeCroy Lanza and lived.

“Charlie, you find out where those boys went. Hire some trackers, if necessary. I’ll call in a few favors and see if I can get any information that might help us.” LeCroy gripped Charlie Kirk’s shoulder. “I want those boys dead before they have a chance to talk to the police.”