much more than he arrived with—
except for an expert’s vague opinion that the rug in the 44
TONY HILLERMAN
photo might or might not be a copy of the original Woven Sorrow , and that making such a copy would be very dif-ficult and, besides, who would want to do it? Beyond that, he had enjoyed two cups of excellent coffee, two tasty but not filling sandwiches, and an interesting version of the story of how that rug had come to be woven, and its history of spreading the misery, brutality, and misfortune it was designed to recall. The only thing he’d received that might help him was the telephone number of Jason Delos.
Leaphorn pulled into a Burger King, ordered a burger, found the pay phone, picked up the receiver, then decided not to call Delos. Not yet. First he would call the Coconino Sheriff’s Department and find Sergeant Kelly Garcia.
If Garcia was in, he might know something useful about Mel Bork. And if Grace Bork had played that telephone tape for him as she said she would, maybe Garcia would have some ideas about that. Anyway, it was a reasonable way of postponing the call to Delos. He had a sad feeling that the call would lead him to a dead end.
But if he just called Grace Bork saying he had nothing helpful to tell her, and then made the long drive back to Shiprock, he would be welcomed there by the loneliness of an empty house and the smell of an almost-full half gallon of milk, thoroughly soured by now, which he had forgotten to put back in the fridge.
He dialed the sheriff’s office. Yes, Sergeant Garcia was in.
“This is Garcia,” the next voice said.
“Joe Leaphorn,” Leaphorn said. “I used to be with—”
THE SHAPE SHIFTER
45
“Hey, Lieutenant Leaphorn,” Garcia said, sounding pleased. “Haven’t heard your voice since we worked on that Ute Mountain burglary thing. Somebody told me you were going to retire,” Garcia continued. “I said, no way.
Old Leaphorn ain’t the kind of man you’ll see out there chasing those golf balls around the grass. Just couldn’t quite imagine that.”
“Well, I am retired,” Leaphorn admitted. “You’re right about the golf thing. And now I’m trying to act like a detective again. Trying to find a friend from way back. A fellow named Mel Bork. Runs a private-eye business.”
“Yeah,” Garcia said. “Mrs. Bork called me. Said she had talked to you. Had me listen to her answering machine tape.” Garcia made a clicking sound with his tongue.
“What did you think?”
“Makes you wonder what Mel’s got himself into, doesn’t it?”
“It made me wonder. And if you have any time, I’d like to talk to you about it. Could we get together for a cup of coffee?”
“I can’t handle it today,” Garcia said.
Leaphorn overheard him shouting at someone, then a little bit of one end of a conversation, then Garcia came back on the phone.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe I can. You remember the Havacup Café there by the courthouse? How about meeting me there. Thirty minutes or so.”
“I’ll be there,” Leaphorn said. “By the way, do you know anything about a man named Jason Delos?” A moment of silence. “Delos? Not much. Understand he’s rich. Not one of the old families, or anything like that, but I guess he’s sort of prominent.” He chuckled. “Guy I 46
TONY HILLERMAN
know in the game and fish department said he thought he had him once for spotlighting deer, but he moved too quick. No shots fired. Didn’t have enough to file a charge.
Otherwise, he’s not the sort of citizen we’d be having much dealings with, I guess, but—”
The sound of someone yelling, “Hey, Kelly,” interrupted. “Got to go, Joe. I’ll see you at the Havacup in thirty minutes.”
7
The changes Leaphorn noticed in Garcia as the Coconino sheriff’s sergeant walked up to the booth were mostly in hair style. Leaphorn remembered him with bushy black hair, a bushy black mustache, and prominent black eyebrows. All still there, but all neatly