fresh bread. Bernie sat at a table by the window and opened the menu. She found some things she recognized: lamb stew, lamb burgers, goat stew, and salads. Also, they served dishes she’d heard of but never tasted. And then came the more exotic choices—cinnamon-dusted plantains and a jerk organic tofu sandwich. And “stuffed phyllo,” whatever that was.
She’d never been an adventurous eater, but aromas from the kitchen tempted her to try something new. If she won the bet with Chee about the FBI checking into Louisa and a murder-for-hire scheme, she’d ask him to take her here. Maybe she’d try that tofu sandwich.
When the waiter asked for her order, she stuck to what she knew—goat stew and a Coke. Then she took the worn brown notebook out of her backpack.
7
B ernie turned the little book over in her hands, feeling the soft leather of its cover. The book had metal rings to hold in the pages, rings that released for refills with pressure on a clasp at the bottom. From the wear on the edges, she guessed Leaphorn had used the book for decades.
By reading what he’d written here, she would intrude into the lieutenant’s private life again. This seemed more of an invasion than standing in his kitchen or rummaging through his deck. Looking inside the journal felt like snooping in his underwear drawer. Still, she had promised Largo she’d find the lieutenant’s relatives, and the book might hold the key to doing that job.
She opened it. The first pages were a printed annual calendar, the year-at-a-glance and then an expansion of each month. The rest of the pages were unlined white paper, some filled with the lieutenant’s precise handwriting. She fanned through, hoping for a heading that read “Contacts” or even “Friends and Relations” and finding nothing like that. Much of what she saw was incomprehensible. He’d filled several pages with doodles—zigzags, half circles with wavy lines beneath, a pattern that resembled stair steps, linked triangles.
Near the end of the notebook, she came across several lists. One short vertical row of figures:
5–20 125/85 195
5–27 140/90 197
6–5 120/80 194.5
They reminded her of something she’d seen before, but what? On the next page, the lieutenant had jotted down a column of letters with what might be phone numbers. She scanned the row, found “JC” and two sets of numbers, their home number and Chee’s cell number, next to it.
She looked up when the waiter brought her Coke. “Would you like some water, too?” He stood with a pitcher in hand.
“Sure,” she said. “Nobody even asks me back in Shiprock.”
“Santa Fe has rules about water in restaurants. It’s expensive here, so we try not to waste it.”
“Good idea.”
He filled her empty glass. “Your lunch will be here soon.”
She returned to the little book. More cryptic notes. Numbers that could be case file notations, each with a name—“Hightower,” “Yellowhorse,” “Shelley”—next to it. She copied them down in her own notebook. She’d talk to Chee about all this, see what ideas he could generate.
On the next pages, more dates and more figures, all without benefit of a heading. Why would he label the pages? He knew what it all meant. She found another set of entries with possible dates. The most recent, about two weeks ago, was followed by “WR/SF 179430–655.” She saw three earlier WR/SF notations with different, lower numbers, but still in the 17 series. WR equaled Window Rock, she thought, and the lieutenant had noted his truck’s odometer readings for his commute to Santa Fe and home again.
The waiter brought her lunch, a big white bowl filled with broth and vegetables. The smell made her mouth water. But instead of gravy like her mother made for goat stew, this African version came with curry sauce and a side of coconut rice. She poked at it suspiciously, then took a bite. Tender slow-cooked meat. Soft carrots, onions, and bite-size chunks of potato. She
She’d never been an adventurous eater, but aromas from the kitchen tempted her to try something new. If she won the bet with Chee about the FBI checking into Louisa and a murder-for-hire scheme, she’d ask him to take her here. Maybe she’d try that tofu sandwich.
When the waiter asked for her order, she stuck to what she knew—goat stew and a Coke. Then she took the worn brown notebook out of her backpack.
7
B ernie turned the little book over in her hands, feeling the soft leather of its cover. The book had metal rings to hold in the pages, rings that released for refills with pressure on a clasp at the bottom. From the wear on the edges, she guessed Leaphorn had used the book for decades.
By reading what he’d written here, she would intrude into the lieutenant’s private life again. This seemed more of an invasion than standing in his kitchen or rummaging through his deck. Looking inside the journal felt like snooping in his underwear drawer. Still, she had promised Largo she’d find the lieutenant’s relatives, and the book might hold the key to doing that job.
She opened it. The first pages were a printed annual calendar, the year-at-a-glance and then an expansion of each month. The rest of the pages were unlined white paper, some filled with the lieutenant’s precise handwriting. She fanned through, hoping for a heading that read “Contacts” or even “Friends and Relations” and finding nothing like that. Much of what she saw was incomprehensible. He’d filled several pages with doodles—zigzags, half circles with wavy lines beneath, a pattern that resembled stair steps, linked triangles.
Near the end of the notebook, she came across several lists. One short vertical row of figures:
5–20 125/85 195
5–27 140/90 197
6–5 120/80 194.5
They reminded her of something she’d seen before, but what? On the next page, the lieutenant had jotted down a column of letters with what might be phone numbers. She scanned the row, found “JC” and two sets of numbers, their home number and Chee’s cell number, next to it.
She looked up when the waiter brought her Coke. “Would you like some water, too?” He stood with a pitcher in hand.
“Sure,” she said. “Nobody even asks me back in Shiprock.”
“Santa Fe has rules about water in restaurants. It’s expensive here, so we try not to waste it.”
“Good idea.”
He filled her empty glass. “Your lunch will be here soon.”
She returned to the little book. More cryptic notes. Numbers that could be case file notations, each with a name—“Hightower,” “Yellowhorse,” “Shelley”—next to it. She copied them down in her own notebook. She’d talk to Chee about all this, see what ideas he could generate.
On the next pages, more dates and more figures, all without benefit of a heading. Why would he label the pages? He knew what it all meant. She found another set of entries with possible dates. The most recent, about two weeks ago, was followed by “WR/SF 179430–655.” She saw three earlier WR/SF notations with different, lower numbers, but still in the 17 series. WR equaled Window Rock, she thought, and the lieutenant had noted his truck’s odometer readings for his commute to Santa Fe and home again.
The waiter brought her lunch, a big white bowl filled with broth and vegetables. The smell made her mouth water. But instead of gravy like her mother made for goat stew, this African version came with curry sauce and a side of coconut rice. She poked at it suspiciously, then took a bite. Tender slow-cooked meat. Soft carrots, onions, and bite-size chunks of potato. She
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