Anglos, just their money,” I commented.
Charlie grinned but said nothing. “He spend a lot of time out
there in the desert?” I continued
“A bit,” he said cagily.
“So what’s that suggest to you?”
Now he had his poker face on. “What do you mean?”
I leaned forward. “Come on, Charlie. Those guys I met
77
John Donohue
yesterday weren’t out for a nature hike. They had binoculars
and a radio and were waiting for something. What do you wait
for out there?”
He shrugged. “Lots of things. People. Drugs. Whatever’s
coming over the border.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And what does it tell you that this
Xochi fella got those guys all calmed down long enough for me
to get away? Seems to me that it suggests he may have some
involvement.”
“You could be right, Burke,” he said quietly. “You hear
things. The Homeland Security people have tightened the
net in a lot of spots. We’re seeing more activity in some of the
rougher border areas around here.”
“And Xochi?”
He held up his hands. “The guy’s plugged into a lot of dif-
ferent groups with ties on both sides of the border. He’s an
expert on the desert. ”
“Did you run a check on him?” I asked.
“Didn’t get as far as I’d like,” he admitted, and sighed quietly.
“Why not?” I demanded.
He bridled a bit at my tone. “Hey Burke, don’t you think I
know my job?”
“Seems to me that your job is to do a thorough check on
your employees, Charlie.”
His eyes got a little hard at that. He started to say some-
thing, then moved his mouth silently as if he were chewing on
his words.
“Look,” he finally said, “I started making some inquiries,
but got pulled off it.”
“Pulled off it? By whom?”
He didn’t answer me directly. He didn’t have to. There was
78
Kage
only one person at the hotel that could do that to him: the gen-
eral manager, Lori Westmann. Charlie looked me in the eyes
and said quietly, “Leave it Burke. They’re close.” He paused for
emphasis. “ Very close.”
I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively.
“Look,” Charlie said, “when the old man took the tumble,
Lori had a lot on her plate: major restorations at the resort,
some big contract negotiations. She needed someone out at the
Kiva to be her eyes and ears… so she settled on Xochi. He’s out
there practically every day anyway. He cleaned things up, got
the old man’s papers organized. Nothing sinister.”
But it was just another strange wrinkle in the story. I headed
off to Eliot Westmann’s place and spent hours rummaging
through his library. Something bothered me. I couldn’t put my
finger on it, but it was there in the back of my mind. I pressed
on. There were files and files of manuscript notes that were
dated, and so could be correlated to his publications. They were
all Xerox copies, however. I wondered why, and also wondered
where the originals were. I got some e-mail responses to my
inquiries, most of which indicated that the people I had tried
to contact were either no longer around, or really not interested
in assisting me in my goofy little project. So I was essentially on
my own, faced once again with an unpleasant task.
I was really going to have to read Eliot Westmann’s collected
works. I suppose that it’s an essential part of literary forensics,
but from what I knew about his death, I suspected that the
cops were right and that all of my work was going to be point-
less. And besides, it didn’t interest me all that much.
So I procrastinated. I poked around the library some more.
Westmann was a prolific, even a compulsive writer. He hadn’t
79
John Donohue
had much published, however, in the decade prior to his fatal
tumble. The sterile little office didn’t give me much insight into
what he was doing.
I decided to poke around a bit more. The entire second
floor of the main building had been Westmann’s living quar-
ters. I wandered through
Charlie grinned but said nothing. “He spend a lot of time out
there in the desert?” I continued
“A bit,” he said cagily.
“So what’s that suggest to you?”
Now he had his poker face on. “What do you mean?”
I leaned forward. “Come on, Charlie. Those guys I met
77
John Donohue
yesterday weren’t out for a nature hike. They had binoculars
and a radio and were waiting for something. What do you wait
for out there?”
He shrugged. “Lots of things. People. Drugs. Whatever’s
coming over the border.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And what does it tell you that this
Xochi fella got those guys all calmed down long enough for me
to get away? Seems to me that it suggests he may have some
involvement.”
“You could be right, Burke,” he said quietly. “You hear
things. The Homeland Security people have tightened the
net in a lot of spots. We’re seeing more activity in some of the
rougher border areas around here.”
“And Xochi?”
He held up his hands. “The guy’s plugged into a lot of dif-
ferent groups with ties on both sides of the border. He’s an
expert on the desert. ”
“Did you run a check on him?” I asked.
“Didn’t get as far as I’d like,” he admitted, and sighed quietly.
“Why not?” I demanded.
He bridled a bit at my tone. “Hey Burke, don’t you think I
know my job?”
“Seems to me that your job is to do a thorough check on
your employees, Charlie.”
His eyes got a little hard at that. He started to say some-
thing, then moved his mouth silently as if he were chewing on
his words.
“Look,” he finally said, “I started making some inquiries,
but got pulled off it.”
“Pulled off it? By whom?”
He didn’t answer me directly. He didn’t have to. There was
78
Kage
only one person at the hotel that could do that to him: the gen-
eral manager, Lori Westmann. Charlie looked me in the eyes
and said quietly, “Leave it Burke. They’re close.” He paused for
emphasis. “ Very close.”
I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively.
“Look,” Charlie said, “when the old man took the tumble,
Lori had a lot on her plate: major restorations at the resort,
some big contract negotiations. She needed someone out at the
Kiva to be her eyes and ears… so she settled on Xochi. He’s out
there practically every day anyway. He cleaned things up, got
the old man’s papers organized. Nothing sinister.”
But it was just another strange wrinkle in the story. I headed
off to Eliot Westmann’s place and spent hours rummaging
through his library. Something bothered me. I couldn’t put my
finger on it, but it was there in the back of my mind. I pressed
on. There were files and files of manuscript notes that were
dated, and so could be correlated to his publications. They were
all Xerox copies, however. I wondered why, and also wondered
where the originals were. I got some e-mail responses to my
inquiries, most of which indicated that the people I had tried
to contact were either no longer around, or really not interested
in assisting me in my goofy little project. So I was essentially on
my own, faced once again with an unpleasant task.
I was really going to have to read Eliot Westmann’s collected
works. I suppose that it’s an essential part of literary forensics,
but from what I knew about his death, I suspected that the
cops were right and that all of my work was going to be point-
less. And besides, it didn’t interest me all that much.
So I procrastinated. I poked around the library some more.
Westmann was a prolific, even a compulsive writer. He hadn’t
79
John Donohue
had much published, however, in the decade prior to his fatal
tumble. The sterile little office didn’t give me much insight into
what he was doing.
I decided to poke around a bit more. The entire second
floor of the main building had been Westmann’s living quar-
ters. I wandered through
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