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  In Memory of Minerva Colemere (1917–2013)

  Acknowledgments

  It is impossible to thank everybody who has enriched my life during the writing of A Killing in Zion, but I shall do my best.

  I reserve my strongest thanks for my agent, Steve Ross. There is not a better literary agent on earth. Steve promptly answered my email queries with kind and detailed responses. He represented me at all times with a firm professionalism that left me in awe. He is the type of agent who makes you feel like you’re his only client, even though that’s far from the case. Thank you, Steve.

  Thank you to the lovely people at Minotaur/St. Martin’s Press. What a pleasure to work with this fantastic publisher a second time. In particular, Bethany Reis was an outstanding copy editor who offered suggestions that greatly enhanced the finished product, while always maintaining a careful eye for even the smallest of historical details. The book you’re holding in your hands would not have been possible without the invaluable help and support of Peter Joseph, who also guided me through my first book, City of Saints, when it won the Tony Hillerman Prize in 2011. Editors simply do not come any better than Peter. His feedback—always constructive and meaningful, yet also rigorous and challenging—shaped A Killing in Zion in profound ways. I am forever indebted to him, as well as the patient and helpful staff at St. Martin’s Press that had to deal with me. Thank you.

  To my family here in Canada: Madeline and Aidan, no words can express the extent of my love for you, and no father was ever prouder of his children. You’ve given me endless amounts of joy and laughter and happy times. Bless you, and thank you. Welcome, Marissa, to our family. It is great having you on board!

  Thank you to my companion, Luisa, for your love, patience, support, superb cooking, and willingness to listen to my problems and hear me read passages from the book. I love you truly, madly, deeply and I count my blessings each day that you’re in my life. Moreover, I consider myself beyond fortunate to have Ruth and Tony in my immediate family.

  Anne Hillerman, thank you! You always inspire me, and I loved Spider Woman’s Daughter. Your father, Tony Hillerman, remains a central figure in my life. I reread and revisit his works often, and with great delight.

  To my Utah family: Kay Hunt, I have within me a bottomless sea of gratitude for all of the love, support, and kindness you’ve shown me over the decades. You’ve always been my role model as a dad and as a man. Thank you. Linda Hunt, for being a magical and rewarding presence in my life. I am eternally grateful for all of the guidance and love and friendship you’ve given to me all of these many years. Love and thanks to the world’s finest brother, Jeff Hunt, and his wife, Stephanie, and their wonderful children, Charlene, Emily, and Spencer. And I would never forget Adam, whose mighty spirit will never die. Jodie Hunt, I love you, and I am elated you’ve been such a crucial part of my life for nearly thirty years now. Heartfelt love to all of my fabulous extended relatives—cousins, aunts, uncles, you know who you are—and to the magnificent Bona clan, who will always be my kin.

  Finally, I dedicate this book to Minerva Colemere (1917–2013). Grandma Minnie, your beautiful home on Milton Avenue was always a haven of joy and laughter and comfort, a place where each member of your big family felt a sense of belonging, and a Rock of Gibraltar in good times and bad. You showed me the noblest side of humanity, through your words and your deeds. I will miss you until the day I die. I keep the afghan blanket you made for me by my side, and it reminds me of a time and place in my past that I will always cherish.

  This was fairy-land to us, to all intents and purposes—a land of enchantment, and goblins, and awful mystery.

  —MARK TWAIN ON HIS TRAVELS THROUGH SALT LAKE CITY, IN ROUGHING IT, 1872

  One

  SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1934

  “Crime does not pay!”

  The deep voice belonged to a slick gent in a tuxedo, who seconds earlier had slunk up to a radio microphone on a stand. A blinking light above the stage cued musicians in a cramped orchestra pit. The house lights dimmed as the music swelled. The theme song relied heavily on violins, with a few horns sprinkled in for sinister effect. The packed studio audience included my wife, Clara, and my two children, Sarah Jane, age eleven, and Hyrum, five. Earlier in the afternoon, the show’s producer had asked me to sit on a stool by the stage so I could get a choice view of the actors. The show, he informed me, was being “transcribed” (a word radio big shots used for “recorded”) for nighttime broadcast coast to coast on the NBC radio network. He asked if I’d be willing to answer a couple of questions at the microphone at the close of the broadcast. I said I’d be happy to do it, but stage fright ate away at my stomach something fierce, and I don’t think I ever stopped squirming on that hard wooden surface under my behind.

  A technician in a glass booth pointed at the widow’s-peaked announcer, who responded with a nod and read from a script in his hands. When he spoke, his voice came out more resonant than I expected, especially for such a lean man.

  “Welcome to Crime Does Not Pay, a copyrighted program, transcribed in Hollywood, USA, presented to you by Bromo-Seltzer, for quick, pleasant relief of upset stomach, nervous tension, and headaches.”

  I could use some of that, I thought.

  Music thundered in the background as he continued: “Each week, Crime Does Not Pay brings you a dramatic reenactment of real-life police cases from across America. Tonight, we are proud to present, from the files of the Salt Lake City Police Department, the Case of the Running Board Bandit.”

  The actor playing me, Lyle Talbot, walked out from behind the curtains and the flashing APPLAUSE light nudged the audience into action. The handsome Talbot bore no resemblance to me—no hint of my gangly frame, ruddy complexion, or unruly auburn hair—but I suppose it didn’t matter, this being radio and all. Debonair, in a three-piece suit, with slick dark hair, Talbot held a script and mouthed “thank you” repeatedly. As the applause and music quieted, he closed in on that silvery microphone and read the lines without even glancing at his script.

  “My name is Patrolman Arthur Oveson,” he said. I bowed my head, containing my embarrassment with a shaky inhale. “I’ve walked the night beat in Salt Lake City for the past four years. My job: to keep the good men and women of this town safe. I have a beautiful wife and the finest children a father could ever hope for. I can honestly say the last place I ever expected to find myself was on the bad end of that .38 Special wielded by the notorious Running Board Bandit.…”

  The music flared up again as more cast members poured out from between the curtains and gathered around the microphone.

  “Beware of the Running Board Bandit, gentlemen,” said the actor portraying Sergeant Noel Gunderson at roll call. “He operates at night, and his method is to crouch low on the passenger side running board of automobiles with his pistol and wait for the unsuspecting driver to get in. When that happens, he pops up like a jack-in-the-box, demanding
money. The bandit is armed and dangerous. If you encounter him, exercise utmost caution. That is all.”

  The actor playing my partner, Roscoe Lund, seemed mousy, with too much pomade in his hair. He bore no resemblance to the genuine Roscoe, whose shaved head, muscular physique, and thick neck frightened off even the most stalwart of lawbreakers. The actor playing him made up for his slight and shifty-eyed appearance by acting the part with a gravelly voice. I had wondered how the scriptwriter, who consulted me months ago by telephone about the particulars of the case, was going to portray Roscoe, a profanity-spewing cop who’d recently given up cigarettes in favor of chewing tobacco and always kept a flask full of some kind of booze in his pocket.

  I soon found out.

  “Heck, Art, do you really think it’s a good idea to put yourself in danger by going out there alone at night with all of them dang robberies happening?” asked the ersatz Roscoe. “You’re gonna get yourself hurt or even killed if you insist on being so gol-durn pigheaded!”

  Heck. Dang. Gol-durn. A trio of words I’d never heard Roscoe utter. His tastes were decidedly saltier when it came to expletives.

  I chuckled softly as I listened to the performers read one melodramatic line after another, talking in a way we’ve never talked before. I must confess: The part of the show that really gave me the jitters was the exchange between the radio Art and the radio Clara. During it, I swiveled on my stool to glimpse Clara’s radiant face and beautiful golden hair, styled in a permanent wave. She must’ve seen me, because she flashed a pearly smile in my direction before shifting her gaze back to the actors on stage.

  “Oh, Arthur, please do be careful, darling,” said the pretty, petite, and crimson-lipped actress playing Clara. “The thought of you being robbed by this treacherous criminal is more than I can bear. Remember, we have children, and I do not wish to be a widow!”

  “I have to do my duty, dear,” said Talbot. “You knew when you married me that you would be the wife of a policeman. Danger, I am afraid, goes hand in hand with the job.”

  “Oh, Arthur, kiss me!”

  The radio Art and radio Clara refrained from kissing as the orchestra played. I think I spotted Clara winking at me in the darkness. In that instant, much to my relief, the Bromo-Seltzer advertisement interrupted the action.

  I loosened my collar when it came time for the radio Art to confront the Running Board Bandit. Memories of that frightening encounter, on a crisp, chill fall night last year, came flooding back to me. The shock of a pistol’s cold steel against my neck, the startling click of its hammer, so much louder when it is aimed at you—it all made my heart race, then and now.

  Until that night, I’d only heard stories from others about Henry Grenache, the twenty-two-year-old unemployed miner whose purchase of a .38 caliber six-round revolver from a downtown pawnshop last summer set off a chain of late-night robberies around the Salt Lake Valley. The Running Board Bandit quickly became something of a local legend, a spooky story told around dinner tables and campfires. Such tales prompted even the most stout-hearted to check over their shoulders at night and made nervous teenagers rush home before curfew. When my brush with him finally came, it frightened me to the core, bringing me in touch with my own mortality in a way that few events up to that point had. How was I to know that night when I dashed inside the Brigham Street Pharmacy on South Temple and E Street to buy a bottle of milk and a Bit-O-Honey that he’d leap out of the bushes and crouch on the running board of my Oldsmobile with a loaded gun, awaiting my return?

  I didn’t see his face when I got back in my car, only his silhouette and the glimmer of the weapon aimed at me from the other side of the glass. His voice was muffled. “Raise your hands where I can see ’em!” I did as he demanded and he opened the rear passenger-side door, slithered inside, and pressed the gun to the back of my neck. “One wrong move and I’ll blow your brains out. Gimme your wallet. Now. Now!” Shaking, feeling cold steel next to my earlobe, I fumbled for my wallet and passed it to him over the seat. The crack of a heavy gun butt against the back of my head sent my face slamming against the steering wheel. I wasn’t sure what hurt worse, the back of my head or the new cut on my lip. I was too frightened to make a fair assessment. But leaning over the steering wheel, I spied the tire iron poking out from under the seat. Grenache’s voice told me he was distracted. “See what you’ve got in here … Oh Christ, you’re a…” I grabbed the long metal tool and swung it at him, connecting with his head. He screamed, toppled backward, and fired his gun. The bullet ripped through the car roof, and a ray of harvest moonlight poured in. A second later, I was aiming my sidearm at him as he rubbed the cut on his head. I switched on the interior globe to get a better look at him. The left side of his face was covered with blood, and greasy strands of hair dangled from the top of his head as he slumped back against the seat, moaning in terrible pain.

  The actors at the microphone brought me back to the here and now.

  “I can’t believe you knocked me in the head with a jack handle, copper!”

  “You should know by now, Grenache, that crime does not pay.…”

  That set off the orchestra. Climactic music filled the radio studio as the two actors stepped away from the microphone. “And now, a final word from the real Arthur Oveson,” said the announcer. “Detective Oveson, would you kindly join us?”

  The audience clapped as I rose from the stool and crossed the stage. I shook hands with the announcer and all of the actors during the applause.

  “You did a splendid job playing me,” I told Lyle Talbot.

  He smiled with his mouth and his eyes and whispered his thanks.

  “Detective Oveson, please step to the microphone,” said the announcer. I nodded and moved in close. “I believe I speak for all of our listeners across America when I say that your heroism on that night back in November was truly inspiring.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I understand you were given a promotion after this harrowing incident, Detective Oveson.”

  “Please call me Art,” I said. “And yes, I was promoted to the detective bureau. I now command my own squad in the Salt Lake City Police Department.”

  Scattered applause crackled.

  “I see! Congratulations!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you have any parting words, especially for the boys and girls listening to our show tonight?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I do. Stay in school, study hard, do your homework. And if you ever find yourself in trouble, tell a grown-up, especially if that grown-up happens to be a police officer. We’re here to help you in any way we can.”

  “Thank you, Detective Oveson, for those wise words. And that concludes tonight’s episode of Crime Does Not Pay, brought to you by Bromo-Seltzer.” Dramatic music filled the studio again. “Be sure to tune in next week at this time as we present the intriguing case of Cleveland’s Phantom Burglar. For the National Broadcasting Company, this is Red Wilcox bidding you good night from Hollywood, USA.”

  * * *

  I white-knuckle-gripped the armrests as the airplane bounced in midair. Between bouts of turbulence, I checked over my shoulder to see Clara and Hyrum in the row behind me, both sound asleep. Now eight months into her pregnancy, Clara’s stomach formed a glorious dome under her green frock. Hyrum sucked his finger while he slept, a habit that had persisted since infancy. I caught my breath and faced forward. Our plane, a dual-engine United Airlines with a pair of roaring propellers, descended into a thick brown haze, the result of massive blazes burning up the Wasatch and Dixie National Forests below us. The airplane cabin was designed with one seat on either side of the aisle, for a ten-passenger capacity. When we weren’t leapfrogging over clouds, the stewardess would squeeze by, asking if we needed anything. I’d smile, shake my head, and pretend I wasn’t in the throes of mortal fear. I kept a United Airlines sick sack by my side at all times, and I closed curtains in a fruitless attempt to ease my terror of heights.

  “Ladies and gents,
” crackled the pilot’s voice through a loudspeaker overhead. “We regret the bumpy skies, but we should be past them very soon.…”

  That’s what he said he over Nevada, I thought. Right then, the plane shook violently, to show me who was boss. I gave the sick sack a squeeze.

  “It’s the safest form of travel, you know.”

  I looked across the aisle at Sarah Jane, who licked her finger and turned the page of her book. She had inherited her mom’s features: hazel eyes, a narrow nose, a light sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks, and chin-length golden-brown hair. She mouthed the words as she read them, and no matter how often the plane shook and rattled, she never once averted her eyes from her book. She showed no hint of fear. How did she do it?

  “Come again?” I asked.

  “Airlines. Your odds of dying in a car wreck or a train jumping the tracks are a lot higher than in a plane crash.”

  “Let’s change the subject, why don’t we. What are you reading?”

  She pressed her finger between the pages to hold her place as she closed the book and held it up so I could see the cover. Little Women, said the gold engraved lettering, and below: Louisa May Alcott. I made a long face and tilted my head. “Isn’t this the third time you’ve read it?”

  “Fourth,” she said, opening it to where she left off. “I read it again in May, for Mrs. Wells’s class. This trip makes four.”

  I bobbed my head, doing my best to ignore the roller-coaster ride that was this flight. “Four times. That’s good. You must really love it, if you’ve read it four times.”

  The ceiling speakers hissed and spat and the pilot’s voice came on: “We will be landing at Salt Lake Municipal Airport shortly. Those of you sitting on the right-hand side of the plane will marvel at the picturesque view of the city.”

  Sarah Jane nudged me. “Open the curtains, Dad.”