At Ease with the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

cup in her lap and lightly shook her head. “Don’t start.”
    Grinning, I said, “I told him that if you agreed, we’d give it a couple of days. I could run down to El Paso, snoop around, see what the possibilities are.”
    â€œThe possibilities are minimal.”
    â€œHe knows that.”
    â€œAnd he’s still willing to pay?”
    â€œWell,” I said, “I did give him kind of a deal on the rate.”
    â€œAh.” Smiling, she nodded. “The male-bonding discount.”
    â€œTake me three, four hours to drive down there. Two days, probably less, of brilliant sleuthing. Then I scoot back here and give Daniel Begay what I’ve got. Which is most likely nothing. And then he goes back and tells this woman that he’s done everything he can.”
    â€œWhy drive down there? Why not take the plane? Never mind. I see. We’re keeping expenses down for our faithful Indian companion.”
    â€œBe a nice drive. I’ve never been to El Paso. And let’s face it, we don’t have anything else going right now.”
    She was looking off, into the fire. “Who do we know in El Paso?”
    â€œGrober.”
    She turned to me, distaste tightening her face. “I thought he was in Albuquerque.”
    â€œHe moved.” I smiled. “He’s not so bad, Rita.”
    â€œHe’s the most offensive man I’ve ever met.”
    â€œWell, that gives him a certain distinction, no?”
    She finished off the wine, leaned forward, and set the mug on the coffee table. “You could call Hector Ramirez and see if he knows anyone in the police department down there.”
    â€œI already did,” I told her. “He gave me a name. A Sergeant Mendez.”
    She smiled. “All right, Joshua. When are you leaving?”
    â€œTomorrow morning. After I talk to Daniel Begay.”
    Another nod. “Meantime, I’ll see if the computer can come up with anything on Lessing. Or Bedford and Randolph.”
    It was her new toy, the computer. She had it hooked into one of those databases that know more than God.
    â€œI’ll call you tomorrow night,” I told her.
    â€œDo that,” she said.
    Cerillos Road is Santa Fe’s commercial strip. You can find a street like it, assuming you’d want to, in every fair-sized city in the country. The big boys are all there: K-Mart, Walmart, Walgreen’s, Motel 6, McDonald’s, Burger King. And closer to town, shouldering each other along the corridor, are the small shadowy shops owned by people named Ray and Jim and Buzz that sell, or try to sell, office siding, fan belts, faucets, used waffle irons, knives, and guns. You might be in Peoria or Duluth except for the occasional gas station built of ersatz adobe. One of these even has a tower and a ladder, so you can zip up there and hide out when the Pueblo Indians revolt again. This tells you that you’re in Santa Fe.
    The Dunkin’ Donuts was on Cerillos, in toward town. I was there at seven o’clock that chilly Wednesday morning. Daniel Begay was late, which provided me plenty of time to savor the coffee, the glazed donuts, and the diesel fumes that seeped around the glass door, donated by the big rigs barreling down the road outside. Plenty of time, too, to admire the plumes of exhaust from the Ford pickups, the Chevy Blazers, the lowriders, the station wagons, the delivery vans. Everyone hustling and bustling, everyone in an enormous hurry to get somewhere where he could buy something, or sell something, or be something. If that particular universe had been created that particular morning, I wouldn’t have wanted to share any of the responsibility.
    No hustle and bustle for Daniel Begay. He showed up at twenty minutes after seven, parking his pickup next to my Subaru. His cane swinging down lightly against the asphalt, he approached the building in the same slow thoughtful way he’d circled Lake Asayi. He stood