who disappeared down the corridor.
“First, I want to know more about Road Chief and the other officers. Who are these people? Do they usually travel together to the peyote meetings?”
“All I know is that Road Chief and his wife were friends of Soto’s.” Padilla sighed, tired of answering the same questions.
He raised his eyebrows. “Road Chief’s wife? Peyote Woman?”
“Right. They live out near Gallup. So do the others, I think. Like I told you before, Soto arranged the peyote meeting himself. He wanted to hold it near San Ildefonso, so I let him use my land. Soto did the rest.”
“But you served as Fire Chief.”
Padilla shrugged. “It’s common for the host to act as Fire Chief. Fire Chief watches the door of the teepee, brings in wood and tends the fire, things like that.”
“Was Road Chief a Zuni? Were any of the officers Zuni?”
“Zuni?” Padilla looked puzzled. “Road Chief’s an Anglo. So’s Drummer Chief and Cedar Chief. Peyote Woman might be Zuni. Some kind of Indian.”
He gave Padilla a legal pad. “Write down descriptions of them. Everything you can remember.”
He walked to the window and looked out through the Venetian blinds at the municipal parking lot that separated the police station from the new Santa Fe Public Library. He could still remember when the library was across the street, before some silly developer with the backing of City Council came up with the bright idea to build a pueblo-style mall called the First Interstate where the old library stood.
“Okay.” He walked back to his desk. “Now tell me this. Why did Soto want to hold the peyote meeting near San Ildefonso?”
Padilla blushed. “Well...he was looking for business.”
“Business? What kind of business?”
“For his gallery. It was like I told you before. He was going to buy my Hopi kachina. And I’d sold him other things, a couple of santos and a buffalo dancer kachina. So had Dora Alvarez, I think. That’s how Soto got a lot of the merchandise for his gallery. He bought it from people like Dora and me.”
He frowned, not liking what he was hearing. “You mean Soto staged the peyote meetings? He used the Native American Church in order to locate tribal objects and family heirlooms to buy?”
Padilla shrugged.
“Is that how he stole the ahayu:da?”
Padilla stared blankly at him. “The what?”
“The ahayu:da. Did Soto steal that, too? Or did he buy it from someone who did?”
Padilla shook his head, either confused or pretending to be confused. He couldn’t decide which.
“Some poor slob who had to sell his own tribal heritage for a few dollars?”
“So what?” Padilla shot back, raising his voice for the first time. “At least he paid for what he took.”
He glared at Padilla, surprised at the little man’s outburst.
Padilla no longer bothered containing his hostility. “Tell me, what else are we supposed to do? Sell fucking trinkets on the Plaza? We’re just trying to stay alive, like everybody else. Look at you. You’ve sold out to the system, you and all the other cops. Who do you think pays your wages? You set yourself against the People.”
“Yeah—fuck you, Padilla!” he snapped, having heard this bullshit before. “What people are you talking about? People like you? Thieves like you? Is that your definition of the People?” He fought hard to control his emotions.
“I’m leaving. If you want me, you know where to find me.”
He watched Padilla walk swiftly out of the office. He was sick and tired of punks like Padilla telling him that he’d sold out to the system. Being accused of selling out was a sore spot with him. He’d heard it repeatedly over the years and was fucking tired of hearing it.
Feeling claustrophobic, he pulled up the Venetian blinds and opened the window to let in some fresh air.
The gentle breeze on his face lifted his spirits. He needed to get out of this cluttered old office that stank of coffee and cigarette smoke and thirty years of police work. He decided to walk over to the Great Burrito Company for a cup of coffee and maybe something to eat.
The telephone rang before he could leave.
“Fidel Rodriguez from the Independent on line two,” Linda said from the front desk.
“Fernando, this is Fidel. I’m calling to find out if there’s anything new in the Soto case.”
Fernando sighed. “Nothing yet.”
“Yeah?” Fidel sounded skeptical, as though insinuating he was withholding something.
“Listen, will you do me a favor?” He changed the subject. “I need some background information. Do you know what an ahayu:da is?”
“You mean the Zuni war god?”
“Exactly. The Zuni carve the wooden figures and then place them in shrines on Zuni land. Sometimes the figures are stolen and end up in museums or private collections. Could you check your files at the Independent for any stories or photographs? Recent stories, especially.”
“No problem. What are you looking for? Is there a connection between Soto’s murder and a stolen ahayu:da?”
“Maybe. Two Zunis came to see me this morning. They think Soto was trying to sell an ahayu:da on the black market.” He could hear Fidel scribbling notes at the other end of the line.
“I’ll be over in a few minutes.” He hung up quickly before Fidel could ask any more questions.
On his way out he winked at Linda.
She smiled and shook her head. “Don’t start.”
He walked down to the Great Burrito Company and ordered a cup of coffee to go, ignoring the tourists sitting at the outside tables. He took the coffee up Marcy Street to the office of the Independent. Only ten minutes had passed since he’d hung up the phone, but that ought to be enough time. If Fidel was as efficient as he suspected.
“Bueñas Dias,” he said to Adellita, the receptionist, as he walked into the newsroom.
Adellita smiled, a young woman with streaks of red sprayed in her hair and tattoos on her bare arms. He didn’t get it. Why would anyone want sprayed red hair? Or tattoos on their arms?
Fidel waved him over to his terminal. “We have one photo in our file. It’s a reproduction of a nineteen twenty-five photograph taken by Edward S. Curtis. The original comes from the Museum of New Mexico Photo Archives. I’ll give you the negative number and our librarian will make you a copy.”
“Thanks.” He spilled coffee on the carpet as he took a seat at the next terminal.
“The
