“You do not have much of what I would call a Southern accent, my friend.”
“Accents disappear fast in Metropolitan Florida.” Moody shifted in his seat. “It ain’t like living out in the country, on the family place. You find accents in Georgia and Sip, but Florida’s full of folks from all over everywhere. In that respect it’s a lot like L.A. I know Cubanos who sound like they’re from Chicago, not Havana.”
“Traditions are stronger here and down in the Strip,” Ooljee replied. “You’ve probably heard about the Strip. Imagine a whole cluster of Ganados strung out along the Border. A good place for a man to lose himself. So we are concentrating our search here and there. Our suspect has a real dilemma. He could go to Portland, say, where he would stand out but where the search is not as intense, or he can stay here where he blends in naturally and try to hide. Me, I think he is around here somewhere.” High beams from an oncoming truck dimmed tardily, highlighting the sergeant’s face.
“You are not married?”
“Been there.” Moody stared out the window as they rushed past a gleaming all-night market. “Twice. It ain’t easy being married to a cop.”
“My wife and I seem to have no trouble. I try not to bring my work home, and I think that helps. You look healthy. No serious on-the-job injuries?”
“I’ve been shot at a few times. Lucky so far. I do a lot of research for the rest of the department. After a while, you find out what you’re good at and stick to that. Neither my mental, physical or work profile suits me for chasing outgrabed crazyboys down dark alleys.”
“I know you must be good at what you do or your department would not have chosen you to come here. You are probably an expert at observation and at putting disparate elements together. Like sandpainting.”
“Nothing personal,” said Moody sharply, “and while it’s central to the case, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep bringing that up.”
Ooljee glanced at him in surprise. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not a superstitious guy and I’m getting tired of it. I can’t tell when you’re putting me on and when y’all are being serious, and it’s making me uncomfortable, okay? I’m a rational empiricist, or whatever the hell it is they’re calling folks who believe in common sense these days. So gimme a break, okay?”
“Okay,” Ooljee replied as he added very softly, “but it is central to the understanding of our suspect as well as everything else about this business.”
CHAPTER 6
Ooljee lived far out on the west side of the city, in a hexacluster of thirty-story multisided towers. Parks and service facilities separated the cluster from its nearest neighbor half a mile to the south. The parks were full of trees and sculpted sandstone, all of it alien to Moody. Trees and bushes wore their desiccated greenery defiantly. Each tower entrance, he noted, faced east.
A telltale on the truck’s dash beeped as the building recognized vehicle and driver. A heavy garage door swung upward, granting them access to the subterranean garage.
“Don’t you think,” Moody said as the sergeant drove down the ramp and the door closed behind them, “you ought to call your wife and let her know you’re bringing company home?”
“She knew someone was coming. She would be surprised only if you were not staying with us.”
The elevator lifted them nine-tenths of the way up the tower, where they exited into a circular hall. Ooljee crossed to a door that was already opening. A short, stocky woman with a smile like an upside-down rainbow stepped aside to let them enter.
Her name was Lisa. The names of the four-armed, fourlegged ball of fury occupying the center of the living room, when separated into its component halves, were Blue and Sun. The boys remained motionless only long enough to embrace their father before fleeing to the sanctum of their bedroom.
The floor was covered with a fabric that felt like carpet but resembled packed earth, a tour-de-force of manufacturing akin to dyeing a rabbit coat to look like mink. There were couches and chairs of rough-cut real wood, blankets and prints on the walls, pots and shelves full of holomage picture books. The kitchen was contrasting technoshock: all gleaming black plastic and brass.
When Ooljee told him he would have the boys’ room, Moody was immediately concerned.
“Where are they supposed to sleep?” He indicated the long couch in the living room. “Hide-a-bed?”
“No.” Ooljee turned toward the curved transparent doors that fronted the back of the living room. “Out on the porch. It will be a treat for them.”
Moody walked over to the doors. The small size of the apartment was somewhat compensated for by the spacious terrace. It was shielded from the elements by the terrace immediately above it, the semicircular polycrete porches resembling giant poker chips stuck in the side of the building. Ooljee’s provided a breathtaking vantage point from which to view the distant line of red which marked the escarpment of the Salahkai Mesa and the even more distant mountains beyond. Spectacular scenery, but not impressive enough to make Moody forget the pale blue of the Gulf.
One of the boys was tugging at his trousers. He was all black eyes, straight black hair, and youthful energy. Not knowing what else to say and figuring it was a safe place to try out what he’d learned, Moody smiled down at the kid and said, “Doo ahashyaa da.”
The boy covered his mouth and giggled, gazing wide-eyed at the massive visitor. His older brother broke out laughing. Chattering among themselves, they retreated to their bedroom.
Moody was pleased. He’d now mastered two Navaho phrases: yatahey and the one he’d just employed.
Ooljee was talking to his wife. Left to his own devices, Moody walked out onto the porch. Since he was standing on the west side of the westernmost tower in the condo complex, none of the other structures was visible. There was nothing to interrupt the view. Off to the south stood a second complex of glittering spires; electric necklaces stuck in the earth.
It was getting late. Lights were coming on in other apartments. Perhaps their murderer was sitting in one, quietly contemplating the results of his work. He wandered back into the living room, listening to the domestic chatter emanating from the kitchen, a mellifluous melange of English and Navaho. Some of the furniture looked old, but modem manufacturing could duplicate anything, including age. The blankets that were hung on the walls intrigued him. The patterns were not remarkably intricate nor were the colors especially bright, but there was a heft, a solidity to the designs, he had never encountered elsewhere. Gazing at them was like unexpectedly encountering an old friend.
The apartment was not large and he eventually found himself back out on the balcony, staring at the setting sun. If he squinted hard he could pretend he was looking at the sea. A voice startled him. He hadn’t heard Ooljee approach.
“You should be here in the summer for the sunsets, after a monsoon thunderstorm. You would not believe how many shades of gold one sky can contain.”
Moody leaned on the thin, inflexible banister that ringed the porch. “I didn’t know Indians still practiced stealth.”
“I don’t know about that, but good cops do.” He nodded at the sunset. “What do you think?”
“It’s different from where I come from.”
“And not really to your taste. I understand. The land here takes time to appreciate. All the bright colors are in the sky.”
“I guess it’s all what you grow up with.”
“Mostly I think it is the emptiness that gets to people, especially people from back East.”