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speak a person’s name, but Mrs. Benally hadn’t mentioned it, so Bernie had to ask.
    “My son is called Jackson Benally.”
    “Did your son drive the car today?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then why is the car here?” Bernie asked.
    Mrs. Benally scowled. “He leaves it for me. He goes to study in Gallup with another boy who has a car. One of those littler ones that don’t use much gas.”
    Mrs. Benally wasn’t sure when Jackson met his friend, only that he left the house about eight, and when she got to Bashas’ she found her car parked where he always left it. Bernie asked, “What does your son look like?”
    “They say he’s handsome.”
    “How tall is he?”
    Mrs. Benally reached her hand a few inches above her own head. Maybe five-eight, Bernie guessed. The shooter hadn’t seemed that tall.
    “Is he muscular? Fat? Thin?”
    “Just right.” Mrs. Benally smiled. “Look here. I have a photo on my phone.” She reached into her red purse and pulled out a cell from the inside pocket. Pushed a button and flashed the phone toward Bernie. A slim, serious-looking young man wearing a button-down shirt. Short-cropped, thick dark hair. Jackson looked about the same age as Bernie’s sister.
    “How old is he?”
    “He’s nineteen. Jackson asked if he could put that sticker on there,” Mrs. Benally volunteered. “ ‘Go Lobos.’ He’s my first to go to college.”
    “Teenagers,” Bernie said. “Sometimes some of them can make their parents worry.”
    “I worried about him last year. You know. Gangs. We never had that when I was growing up.”
    “Was he in a gang?”
    Mrs. Benally shook her head. “Not my Jackson.” But Bernie knew children kept secrets, and so did parents.
    “Do you know the name of the friend Jackson drives with?”
    “He calls him Lizard.”
    “Lizard?”
    “Lizard.”
    “Does Lizard have another name?”
    Mrs. Benally thought about it. “Leonard. Leonard Nez.”
    The wind pushed Mrs. Benally’s plaid blouse tight against her ample chest. The sun beat down, cooking the asphalt. Bernie pictured the Fudgsicles melting into chocolate puddles.
    “Why don’t you and I sit in the car?” Bernie said. “Get some shade.”
    Mrs. Benally looked at the patrol unit suspiciously.
    “It will be more comfortable than getting sand-blasted,” Bernie said. “We can put your groceries in there, too.”
    Mrs. Benally said, “Okay, if you roll down the windows.”
    Bernie did better than that. She activated the air-conditioning.
    She hadn’t been able to stop the shooter or return fire, but with the sedan found so quickly, Bernie thought, the puzzle of Leaphorn’s attack would be solved and the person who hurt him arrested. The idea that she’d helped made her feel a little lighter.
    After Mrs. Benally had settled in, Bernie radioed Largo about Jackson and Leonard Nez.
    “Manuelito,” Largo said. “You are off the case. Remember?”
    “Chee assigned me to wait with the shooter’s car until the tow truck got here. Mrs. Benally and I were just talking, and I knew this was important.” Bernie watched an Arizona State Police SUV pull up next to Wheeler’s unit and then two groups of Apache County deputies arrive in pickups with horse trailers.
    She updated Largo while the state cops parked at the McDonald’s that adjoined the Bashas’ lot. The vehicles outside the restaurant included rez cars and a tourist’s rental RV with advertising on the side. She heard deputies unloading the horses. If the suspect had taken off on foot through open country, he’d better have a good hiding place, or they’d find him.
    Largo said, “Good work. But remember—”
    “I know. This isn’t my case. When we’re done, I’m taking the day off,” she said. “Going to see my mother.”
    I n Bashas’, Chee learned that none of the twelve adult grocery store customers, six children, three clerks, and four stockers had seen anything or anyone unusual that morning. At least, not until Officer Wheeler arrived