“We keep good records,” the woman said. “But it’s night shift and I don’t have enough people.”
How difficult could it be to check a few records less than a month old?
Monica Ucumtwi came into the office and smiled at Grinda. Liksabong didn’t seem particularly glad to see her, but her attitude suddenly shifted to instant and fawning cooperation. “I’ll take a look at the records and see what’s there. Why don’t you grab a coffee or something to nosh on in the Thunderbird—on the house,” she said with a smile and a nod to Ucumtwi, who pulled Grinda’s arm and led them to the crowded sports bar. There was a lot of conversation, but for a bar it was quiet, Service noticed. TVs were showing replays of a Packers game from the 1960s. The players looked almost comical. Few patrons were watching.
Service studied the snack bar menu, which listed muffins, gum, chips, candy, Rolaids, Tums, and cough drops, all under the category of “Other.”
Tums and Rolaids with food? This wasn’t irony; it was a sign of providence. He ordered a cup of coffee. Simon got a basket of jalapeño poppers. Monica Ucumtwi ordered a Coke, as did Grinda.
“The manager’s attitude shifted when you showed up,” Service told Ucumtwi.
“Tribal elections are coming. If she thought that I’d seen her being less than helpful, she’d be afraid I’d tell others. In our elections what people think about you is as important as your paper qualifications.”
“All politics are local,” del Olmo said.
“Tribal politics are the ultimate local event,” Ucumtwi said pleasantly, “but they are taken as seriously as a second coming.”
The decorations around the bar were more Indian-like than genuine, modern representations of all things Native rather than those of a particular tribe, which struck Service as tacky. Several elderly customers in motorized wheelchairs buzzed past en route to the pit. One of them had on a clear plastic mask attached by tubes to a large bottle of oxygen stuck in a pocket beside her. What kind of person would come to a casino to gamble when they were on their last legs? Wouldn’t a prayer in church be a better wager?
Ucumtwi pushed up her brown uniform sleeve and checked her watch. “I’ll go see how things are going,” she said.
“Cameras all over this place,” Service told Grinda and del Olmo.
Twenty minutes later they were in a room looking at still photos taken from videos, most from a camera positioned above the hotel’s registration desk. Manager Liksabong explained that these were from the last two months, and if they needed copies made, she would take care of it for them.
The photos were in large, flat albums, in glycene sleeves.
“There must be four hundred people here,” Service said. “Good thing they don’t comp as a policy.”
“What exactly are we looking for?” del Olmo asked.
“Native woman, dark hair, thirties or forties.”
“That should make it easy,” Grinda said, rolling her eyes. “How does one identify a native?”
Service ignored her sarcasm, and began leafing through pages. In the second book he found someone he recognized, but she wasn’t obviously Native American and she wasn’t in her thirties. It was Outi Ranta and she was dressed for a party.
When each of them finished their allotment of books, they pushed them to the next person so they could look. In this case, redundancy was essential, but the search revealed nothing more and Service was displeased.
He looked at the tribal deputy. “These are stills from a video. Can we also look at the video the stills came from?” He showed her the photo of Outi Ranta. There was a computer code along the bottom.
“I’ll ask.”
Thirty minutes later they were in another room with VCRs, and Service was inserting a cassette.
It took a while to find Outi Ranta, but he found her. Two cameras had captured her. One had her alone at the registration desk. Another had gotten her from behind as she walked toward the desk. The dress she wore barely reached her thighs, and walking beside her and looking back at something was Charley Fahrenheit.
Outi Ranta was Hannah. “I’ll be damned,” he said.
“You’ve got something?” Grinda asked.
“Something is a good word,” he said, neither specific, nor with meaning. What was Outi Ranta doing with Fahrenheit? He was back in that swamp, and had just gotten to solid ground when it now appeared to be a patch of quicksand.
“I want a copy of this tape,” he told Officer Ucumtwi, who went away to arrange it.
The night manager personally brought the tape to them. “If you need anything else, please call me directly.” She gave Service her card.