Spider Woman's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

to the sedan’s right rear fender. It was dented, just as she remembered, and had picked up a coating of silver paint. She noticed a red bumper sticker, “UNM Lobos.” The University of New Mexico, her alma mater, a three-hour, 170-mile drive away in Albuquerque.
    “This is the car,” she said to Chee. “I’m sure of it.”
    “I saw it as I was driving in to help with the search,” Wheeler said. “No one near it. I’ve been keeping an eye on it. No one has touched it since I got here.”
    Considering how old the car was—Bernie guessed the early 1980s—it was in remarkably good shape except for the dent. She looked in through the open window, noticed the wear on the driver’s seat and a patch of duct tape over the upholstery on the passenger side. The backseat was empty, the floors clear. Whoever owned this car took care of it. Except for some sand on the mat beneath the gas and brake pedals, it was clean.
    Chee looked at Bernie, then turned toward Bashas’. “I’m going into the store, ask some questions. I’ll have the manager close it. You follow up on the Arizona plate check. When you’re done on the radio, watch the car so Wheeler can come help with the interviews.”
    Chee had every right to tell her and Wheeler what to do, thanks to Largo putting him in charge of the investigation. Still, she bristled at taking orders from him. She climbed into his unit car, fuming but silent. She lowered the windows and tried to calm down before starting her assignment.
    Wheeler said, “Let Bernie do the interviews. She’s better with people. I can follow up with the radio and watch the car.”
    “Largo took her off the case,” Chee said. “She’s just here for the ID.”
    Chee sprinted toward the building, nearly colliding with a rotund Navajo woman rolling her grocery cart toward them.
    The woman with the cart advanced. She said, “You’re blocking my car.”
    “You own this car?” Wheeler asked.
    The woman glared at him, the look one might give a small, ornery child. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her hand.
    “Yes. That’s why I’m gonna put in my groceries and head for home once you get out of the way.”
    Wheeler said, “This car matches the description of a vehicle involved in a shooting this morning. We need to impound it and check it for evidence. The tow truck is on the way.”
    The woman’s dark eyes widened. “Is this one of those TV shows where they play tricks on people?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    The woman said, “Not my car.”
    “This is not your car?”
    “This is my car. But my car was not involved in any funny business.” She rummaged in a red purse and held out her hand with a set of keys. The wind stirred her short, cropped hair. “Look, see here?” She switched to Navajo and said, “I need to get on home now.”
    She pushed her grocery cart toward the car’s trunk. Bernie watched from inside Chee’s unit as Wheeler moved to block her.
    “Because this car was involved in a serious crime, we have to check it for evidence,” Wheeler said in English. “Please step away from it, ma’am.”
    “Lots of cars look like this. Do you think I’m a criminal?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m asking you to cooperate with us, ma’am. Please show me your driver’s license.”
    The woman stiffened and stared up at his name tag. “Officer Wheeler, my Fudgsicles are melting. I didn’t have anything to do with anything bad, but I am not happy with you. This is what they call police harassment. If you keep talking like that, they might think you are crazy.”
    Bernie picked up the tone of Shopping Cart Woman’s voice, sensed trouble in the making. Luckily, the license plate check was nearly done; the officer assured Bernie she would be able to retrieve the name of the car’s owner in another sixty seconds.
    “Ma’am, I need to see your driver’s license,” Wheeler repeated.
    The woman said nothing, but her defiant posture spoke volumes.
    Two police cars,