Louisa had poured their coffee, a mug for herself, joined them at the table, but had politely refrained from getting into this discussion. Now she cleared her throat.
“Of course he’s behind, Joe. Who wouldn’t be? Tell him about your pig theory.” She smiled at Chee. “As Joe sees this situation these are very sinister pigs.”
Leaphorn looked slightly embarrassed.
“Pig is the name pipeline maintenance people use for a device they push through the pipes to clean them out. First they were simply a cylinder that fit the dimensions of the pipeline and was short enough, or flexible enough, to make it around corners and ups and downs in the line. They were covered with pig bristle to brush away rust and deposits. These days they’ve gotten much more high-tech. Computer chips in them, sensing devices and transmitters so they can measure wear, find cracks, let management know where repairs need be made, so forth.”
Chee was considering this, surveying what he knew about pipelines, which was virtually nothing. He’d heard that the major lines sometimes were moving several products at the same time, like miles of crude oil, followed by refined gasoline, followed by methane gas, or something else. He presumed some sort of barrier was used to separate the products. But how? And how were these products moved along, and taken out? If it wasn’t gravity-driven, it must require some sort of pumping. Putting pressure in the line to push whatever was in it along. But he’d never really given it any thought.
“So,” he said, “are you thinking they’re using the old pipeline to smuggle something in. Like dope, perhaps. Or nuclear devices for Al Qaeda’s terrorism campaign, to slip radioactive stuff past radiation detectors. Or maybe to smuggle something out of the country.”
“Take your pick,” Leaphorn said. “Whichever it is, I think something illegal must be involved. And it’s pretty clear some very big money is operating here. Buying the ranch, paying for that construction, making some investments here and there to make sure the Mexican police aren’t interfering.”
“And big money makes it dangerous,” Chee said. “I mean for anyone who interferes. Like Bernie. You remember how she tended to get involved in things without being told to.”
Leaphorn nodded. “And apparently someone believes our Miss Manuelito may be doing that now.”
Louisa exhaled abruptly, producing a sound that signaled frustrated impatience.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “You two sitting here, perfectly calm, discussing the mechanics of pipelines, and convincing yourselves that Bernadette Manuelito is in danger of being killed.”
Leaphorn stared at her. So did Chee.
“Instead of doing what?” Leaphorn asked. “You want us to kidnap her and bring her home?”
Louisa’s expression was disapproving. “Well, you should do something. If you have it figured correctly, you think they—whoever they are—have already killed that man ... that homicide up by the Jicarilla Reservation.”
“Yes,” Chee said.
“Let’s see what we have,” Leaphorn said. “No evidence a crime is being committed. We have no jurisdiction if there is a crime. We have no—”
“No common sense either,” she said. “Sergeant Chee knows very well that if he went down there he could get Bernie out of that mess. Bring her home.”
Chee put down his coffee cup, leaned forward.
“Jurisdiction,” he said. “Isn’t most of that land down in the New Mexico boot heel public domain land? Government owned and just leased out to the ranchers?”
“Ah,” Leaphorn said. “I see what you’re thinking. I’ll call the county clerk at Deming. She’ll know how much of that ranch is under lease.”
“I don’t see what Jim’s thinking,” said Louisa. “Let me in on this.”
“He’s thinking that if that construction site Bernie photographed on the Tuttle Ranch is on public domain land, even a Bureau of Land Management enforcement officer would have a perfectly valid legal right to go in there and make an inspection. Right?”
“Right,” Chee said. “At least I think so.”
“If you can find one to do it for you,” Leaphorn said.
“You remember Cowboy Dashee, don’t you, Lieutenant. That Hopi friend of mine who was an Apache County deputy. Well, he’s now an officer with the BLM enforcement division.”
Leaphorn got out of his chair.
“I’ll call Deming,” he said. “You see if you can find Officer Dashee. And we’ll want to get Officer Bernadette Manuelito in on this, too.”
“If she’s already in on it, I want to get her out of it,” Chee said. “I’m going to find Cowboy. Get him involved in this business.”
20
Bureau of Land Management Enforcement Officer Cowboy Dashee’s schedule of duties for the next few days included investigating a controversy about overgrazing on the fringe of the Carson National Forest, reports of an unauthorized fence on another grazing lease, and illegal diversion of snowmelt runoff from a stream into a stock pond. All of these involved leased federal land along the New Mexico-Colorado border. As Cowboy was telling Jim Chee, that’s a hell of a long way from the Tuttle Ranch.
“I know,” Chee said. “But think of the glory you get if you break up some sort of smuggling scheme. Like diversion of our crude oil—or maybe natural gas—out of the country without taxes or royalties paid. Or smuggling in nuclear devices where radiation detectors can’t sense them. Or heroin. Or cocaine. Any of that stuff.”
“You think about that. I’ll think about the trouble I’ll have lying out of it if this just turns out to be a Navajo pipe dream. And here I am, marginal jurisdiction at best, no evidence, no clues, just this funny story about piping dope into the country through an abandoned gas line.”
“Tell ’em we had a tip that the Islamic terrorists were going to start sending nuclear bombs through the pipe to blow up the J. Edgar Hoover building in Washington,” Chee said. “They’d like that.”
“In a rusty old pipeline?” Dashee said. “I don’t think those bombs would go off. And if they’re sending pot through, I don’t think I’d want to smoke it.” He laughed. “They couldn’t call the coke they shipped that way nose candy.”
“Those pipes don’t rust much,” Chee said. “Not in dry country they don’t. Built to last forever.”
Dashee considered this. They were standing beside his official federal vehicle—a Dodge Ram pickup wearing the BLM insignia—at his little stone house at the outskirts of Walpi on the Hopi Second Mesa. He was staring south as if, Chee thought, Cowboy could see two hundred or so miles south and east into New Mexico’s boot heel desert country to where he hoped Dashee would soon be taking them. Chee gave him some time to think, uneasy, but enjoying the view.
Walpi was on the high edge of the mesa, maybe seven thousand feet above sea level and a couple of thousand feet above the immensity of empty country below them. A truck was rolling down U.S. 264 far below their feet, ant-sized, and the thunderheads of the late-summer monsoon season were beginning to build over Tovar Mesa, and the Hopi Buttes, and the ragged spire of Montezuma’s Chair miles to the south. No lightning yet, and only one of the clouds was dragging a mist of vigara below it. As the cloud towers rose higher later in the morning some of them would make rain. Now they only produced a pattern of cloud shadows dappling the landscape dark blue as they drifted eastward.
Dashee sighed. “You’re sure about this photo of Bernie?” he asked. “It was taken by her boss, and it was handed around to some druggies in Sonora. I mean, right away after it was taken? And the word from there was that they think Bernie is dangerous?” He stared at Chee. “Is that true? Not just speculation?”