“Get used to the idea. Think of it as a wide beach if it helps, but you’re going.”
“Why not send somebody else?” The thought leapt unbidden to his lips. “Why not send that tall, good-looking young detective who’s so good at PR? What’s his name? Nackerman? Nickerson? He was on the scene before I was.”
“We’re talking interjurisdictional cooperation, Vernon. Nickerson’s a little too aggressive for an assignment like this, a little too involved in promoting himself instead of tending to business. You have a way of working with people without threatening them.”
Moody knew he had no chance of extricating himself unless he produced a much more substantial reason for not going, but try as he would, he couldn’t come up with one. Personal dislike was insufficient. Despite his distaste, he was flattered. Feldstein was sending him because he was the best man for the job. Or else because he thought the big detective wouldn’t be missed.
“Isn’t there anyone else who can go, sir?” It was a lame last effort but he had to try.
“Oh, there are other people I could send. There just aren’t others I want to send. You’re going, Vernon, because I know you’ll get along out there, and because I know you won’t miss anything, and because I know you won’t waste the department’s time and money gallivanting around at night.”
That’s me, he thought resignedly. Good ol’ boy Moody, the quintessential dull cop. Not necessarily the most brilliant, nor the most obvious, but ever the safest.
“It won’t be so bad, Vernon.” Feldstein was trying to be sympathetic. “Everyone needs a change of scenery from time to time.”
But I like this scenery, dammit. What he said was, “If y’all have made up your mind, sir, then I’m just killing time for the both of us by standing here.” He turned to go, hesitated at the door. “I get travel pay?”
Feldstein smiled broadly. He had bright white teeth. On the rare occasions when he revealed them, they added an uncharacteristic glow to his usually dour expression. As if conscious of the atypical display, his lips abruptly tightened.
“Full travel pay and time, but I want you out there pronto. No maglide connections. Take a shuttle.”
“Fine with me, sir.” And it was. Moody had no desire to spend hours in a transcontinental maglide car. “What about a place to stay?”
“Set up a per diem with Accounting and make your own arrangements. You’ve never been on assignment outside the Bay area before, have you?”
“Shoot, I’ve never been out of the South before, sir. No reason to. I like it here. I’m not one of those guys who yearns for faraway places.”
“It’ll be good for you,” Feldstein insisted unconvincingly. “Broaden your horizons.”
Moody didn’t want his horizons broadened, but with the Chief exerting an unusual effort to be understanding, it would have been undiplomatic to say so.
“Arizona, huh? Maybe there’s a lake somewhere.”
“Not near where you’re going. And properly speaking, you’re not going to Arizona. You’re being assigned to the Navaho Department of Public Safety, of the Navaho Nation. Those are the people you’ll be working with. Not the Arizona police.”
Shoot, Moody mused as he left the Chief’s office; cops were cops. Whether from the Hindu Kush or the Great Rift Valley, he’d manage to get along with any new colleagues so long as he could find one or two to share a beer with. If they followed the NFL scores, so much the better. His thoughts left him feeling slightly more sanguine about things, but not much.
CHAPTER 4
By the time the shuttle crossed the Texas-New Mexico border, the air had become impossibly transparent, the views absurdly extensive. It remained thus as the shuttle commenced its descent from seventy thousand feet, falling like an amputated arrowhead toward the red-brown frying pan that was Northern Arizona.
Finally pausing in his reading long enough to glance out a window, Moody was appalled by what he saw. Gone was the fertile landscape of Florida, the reassuring tracts of homes and condos, the pale opalescent blue of the Gulf. Below lay earthtone gone amuck, reds and umbers and dirty pink and brown, sprawled from horizon to horizon like a Calcutta whore. In vain he searched for the signatory slash of the Grand Canyon, before realizing sheepishly it must lie too far to the northwest to be visible from his present position and altitude.
The barren emptiness of the terrain compared to that of population-swollen Central Florida was numbing. Like a drowning man nearing land, he began to breathe a little easier only when the support structures surrounding Klagetoh International Airport came into view. Fastech and light-industry manufacturing facilities clung to both sides of Interstate-40 like aphids to a rose stem.
It was a relief to leave the plane for the comforting bustle of the terminal, which was gratifyingly spacious and modem and full of color and life. Men and women from around the world swarmed like corpuscles through the corridors, bumping into each other while venturing apologetic phrases in half a dozen tongues.
They were drawn to this formerly isolated chunk of North America by the explosion of hi-tech manufacturing which in the past hundred years had radically transformed the Navahopi Reservations. The Koreans had arrived first, looking to steal a march on the Japanese, who hadn’t been far behind in their never-ending quest for skilled labor and benign tax structures. After them had come, in a rush, the Taiwanese, the Malaysians, the Thais, and the Indians and the Brazilians and the South American Community. Slow to recognize the potential of the Rez, the EEC was now trying hard to catch up. The shuttle had been full of Germans, Italians, and Turks.
“If you think this is bad, you should see Phoenix. They have needed a new airport for fifty years.”
Moody found himself eyeing a softly smiling man ten years his junior. He wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt and neatly pressed brown jeans. And cowboy boots, as if Moody needed any further proof he was no longer in Central Florida. Though probably in his thirties, he looked considerably younger. Slightly less than average height and slimly built, he tended to disappear alongside Moody. A lot of people did. His skin was as smooth and unblemished as that of a fashion model. The little half-smile—the comers of his mouth turned slightly upward, making the cheekbones even more prominent than they were naturally—seemed to be the only expression he had. He extended a hand.
“Ya-tah-hey. I’m Sergeant Paul Ooljee, NDPS.”
Moody shook the proffered hand. “Vernon Moody, Detective, Greater Tampa PD.”
The sergeant held the handshake a long time. His small fingers were like steel and Moody was conscious of the pressure of the thumb against the back of his own wrist. No doubt that meant something. Moody hoped he wouldn’t have to hang around here long enough to learn the local customs.
“I’ll tell you my theory if you’ll tell me yours.” The grin did not fade.
“Haven’t got one yet. ” Moody walked beside the smaller man, letting him lead. “Title aside, what do I call you?”
“Paul will do fine. I would give you my other name but I do not think you could pronounce it. If you have trouble with Ooljee, you can call me Moon, which is what it means. Or you can call me crazy, which is what some of my friends call me. Especially my mother-in-law. You can also say ‘my friend.’ That is what I will be calling you.”
“We’ve just met.” Ooljee turned a comer and Moody lengthened his stride to keep pace. They were in a restricted corridor now, having left the airport crowds behind.
“It is only proper. If you don’t tell someone your name and where you and your clan are from right away, then you mark yourself as a suspicious person. In Navaho it is more correct to ask, ‘What is this person?’ instead of ‘Who is this person?’ But since I can tell from the look on your face that everything I am saying is only confusing you, we can just call each other Ooljee and Moody for a while. If you do not object to the formality, my friend.” He looked thoughtful.