One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 19, page 8

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Umo Amuéné followed the detective between two rows of orderly desks, devoid of lawmen, as they headed toward the evidence storage room. Lango cracked his knuckles as he trailed behind.

Why did small-town policemen have to be so sensitive about their territory? Like dogs. Umo knew he should have known to be more careful about that. You have to sweet-talk these people. Hérazhahívo didn’t get Rakazhazhíní into bed by yelling at Her, that’s for sure.

“Zhudıro is from the Míníhépamí area, in and out of prison a number of times,” said Umo. “Drugs, theft, small stuff.”

Marıdaré opened the door to the evidence room, scowling at Umo.

“Yes, yes. We know all that. Tell me something new.”

Lango huffed, about to say something, but Umo cut him off.

“What would you like to know? Perhaps this would work better if you let me know where the gaps in your knowledge are.” Umo glanced around the evidence room, but didn’t see any boxes or bags that overtly looked like Gogzhuè’s weapons shipment.

“Well,” said Marıdaré, before pausing to spit tobacco juice into a glass bottle. “What’s his support network? Where will he run?”

Umo averted his eyes from the nasty bottle of cloudy brown liquid in the detective’s hand.

How much information could he divulge without compromising his mission, without compromising Gogzhuè?

“He doesn’t have much of a support network. As I said, Zhudıro’s a low-level runner. I doubt anyone in the organization would lift a finger to help him now.” He gestured at the shelves of boxes. “Where’s the evidence for this case? Maybe I’ll recognize something useful.”

The detective grunted and grabbed a three-foot-long cardboard box off a shelf. He plonked it down on a nearby table and opened the lid. Inside were a pair of tagged rifles, a handgun, some bagged bullet casings, a stack of photographs--duplicates, likely--and bags of what looked like broken glass and bloody gravel.

“Is this it?” blurted Lango. He needed to learn to keep his mouth shut.

“Were you expecting something more?”

Umo gave a brief glare to his greasy partner. “Can we see Zhudıro’s auto?” He must’ve dumped the weapons, but it was still worthwhile to look at his vehicle. Umo didn’t trust the locals to catch every clue.

Umo picked up one of the rifles--a solid, older model--and flipped over the constabulary’s tag.

“Yes, his auto is--”

“This rifle is Bhanar’s,” interrupted Umo. “Is he still a suspect?”

“No,” replied the detective. “Actually, that can be. . .” He spat into his bottle and reached for a telephone on the wall by the door. Without dialing, he said into it, “Lawman Nulıpésha, please report to Evidence.” His voice crackled on a loudspeaker overhead.

Another man’s voice responded on the loudspeaker, “She just left. Should I order her back?”

A deeper man’s voice answered, “They’re stopped out front. Reporters.”

“I’ll take it to him,” offered Umo. His pulse quickened. He was going to meet the emperor!

Marıdaré commanded on the telephone, “Laparıpasamé, tell her to wait a minute.” To Umo, he said, “I’ll need to sign it out, Agent.”

As Umo gripped the rifle with both hands, the detective checked the number on the tag with the box’s list and scribbled on one line. He nodded to Umo.

Thus released, the pompadour-bedecked royalist spun and slammed through the door. Racing across the office, a smile cracked his lips for the first time in a year.

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