The Last Warrior

by Kylie Brant

  He looked at the screen and lowered the magnifying glass. “What’s that?” He tapped an area on the computer screen with an index finger.

  “Reflection, probably.”

  “Yeah, but off what?” He slid from his perch and knelt next to her.

  She zoomed in on the section once, then again. Other than the spot of light he’d noted, there was nothing to see. Disappointed, she sat back in the chair. “The angle probably caught a streak of mineral in the rock. The photos before and right after this one don’t show anything.” She continued clicking on the individual photos, zooming in on sections along the top of the cliff line. It was a tedious process, made more so by her heightened awareness of the man inches away from her.

  He was too close. Hadn’t she told herself that they should never get this near again? Hadn’t she told him? Apparently her hormones didn’t heed advice because they were humming to life. Which only went to prove they operated separate from good sense.

  Grimly, she inched a little over in her seat, to place a bit more distance between them as she cropped a photo on the screen and enlarged it. Despite his reaction earlier when she’d set the new boundaries between them, Joe didn’t appear to be experiencing any problems by working this closely with her. She stole a glance at him, but he was once again absorbed in the stack of photos. It was a kick to the ego to see how little effect she had on him, especially since his nearness was playing havoc with her concentration.

  Reid had had the same sort of focus, she recalled with a pang. Despite what went on between them personally, he had always been able to switch his attention from her to the job with an ease that had stung more than a little. Not that she needed, or wanted, a man’s undivided attention at all times. But she’d come to accept that she was never going to be as important to Reid as the story, whatever it happened to be.

  It had been the love of the job that had brought them together. In her darkest moments she wondered if the story was the only real bond they shared. He’d loved her, as much as he was capable. She’d always wonder if that would’ve been enough. If it would have ever stopped feeling like little slices to the heart every time he’d shut her out, shut himself away.

  She’d never had the opportunity to find out. He’d died with seventy-one others in that hotel blast and her life had never been the same.

  The memory had her defenses slamming firmly in place. She’d never go through that again. It was easier, far easier, to be the one who backed away. Maybe she’d wounded Joe’s pride by being the first to point out what a mistake last night was, but she couldn’t believe he wouldn’t have arrived at the same conclusion on his own.

  He hadn’t exactly struck her as a man looking for a serious relationship, at any point.

  Immersed in her own thoughts, she almost missed it. She’d moved on to another part of the photo she was examining when her mind caught up with her subconscious. Quickly she went back to the section she’d just zoomed in on. Patiently, Delaney readjusted the picture until she had a clear view of the portion that had caught her attention.

  “What does this look like to you?”

  Immediately Joe leaned over to study the screen. A hard satisfied smile crossed his lips. “A person’s forehead.”

  “Exactly.” Pursing her lips, Delaney hit the command keys to print out a copy of the enlarged photo. “Like he was crouched behind that outcrop of rock up there, with only a portion of his head visible.”

  “Let’s see what else you can get. It’ll be tough to identify him by his hairline.”

  Delaney made a face at him but he’d already turned to leave the room. He was back a moment later with one of her kitchen chairs. “Move over.”

  Although she wasn’t pleased at being ordered around in her own home, she did as he directed to avoid having him in her lap. “I didn’t notice that, even with the magnifying glass,” Joe murmured, snatching up the photo as soon as the printer finished it.

  Eagerly, she brought up the next photo, taking painstaking care to enlarge the spot where the forehead had appeared in the previous picture. Nothing could be seen. Clamping down a quick surge of disappointment, she searched the rest of the photo just as carefully before bringing up the next one. She checked the clock in the corner of her computer screen. “This is going to take a while,” she pointed out. She could feel the heat emanating from Joe’s body. And it was all too easy to recall that same warmth when his bare flesh pressed against hers.

  Nerve endings prickled at the memory, and her skin seemed to shrink two sizes. She needed time and distance to regain her equilibrium. It wasn’t so much to ask, was it? The last thirty-six hours had been enough to knock anyone off their stride. It didn’t mean she was weak to want a little space. It was only logical, and she would welcome a little logic in her life right about now.

  “You should just let me finish this alone. It could be hours,” she stressed, as he looked at her with that fathomless gaze. “Whatever I discover, I could make copies and drop them by work. Tomorrow. You could see them first thing.”

  “But if I stay I can see them now,” he pointed out reasonably. “I have a lot going on at work. I doubt you’d catch me in. And Taos made it clear that you’re a priority and that he wants me to personally check into this matter.”

  For a moment she forgot her eagerness to have him gone and stared at him, dismay filling her. It hadn’t really occurred to her what it would mean to have her shooting incident dumped on top of Joe’s probably already formidable caseload. “When do you plan on sleeping?” she asked bluntly.

  Something like humor crossed his expression, although he didn’t smile. “Sleep is overrated.”

  Especially when beds could be used for so much more interesting things.

  Shoving that thought aside, Delaney turned back to the computer. She could do this. She would. A few more hours, tops, and she’d be rid of Joe Youngblood and these pesky hormone-driven mental lapses. Then she’d concentrate on the job she’d accepted, the project that had brought her here. He wasn’t the only one with work to focus on.

  She slapped at his hands when he tried to make adjustments to the picture on the screen. “Do you mind?” With a few quick commands she zoomed in on a section, and then just as quickly discarded it as useless.

  “You’re touchy tonight.” His voice was too bland not to be deliberate. “Any particular reason for that?”

  Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she lied through her teeth. “I guess I’m just as possessive of my computer as you are of your gun.”

  “And if I promise to stay away from the bullet key?”

  She refused to let herself smile. “Two jokes in two days, Youngblood. Careful. Someone might think you have a sense of humor.”

  They worked in silence for a time, and after a while she almost forgot to be distracted by his nearness. She’d gone through at least five more photos before they both stared at a section of a photo and said simultaneously, “There.”

  Delaney adjusted the portion and leaned in, trying to see around Joe as he examined their finding. It was the upper right quadrant of a man’s face. Part of a forehead, one eye, cheek and the shadow of a nose. “Could be Indian. Maybe Mexican,” Joe muttered. “Can you get any closer?”

  “Not without distorting it.” She showed him what happened when she tried to enlarge it further, then returned to the former shot.

  He shook his head, frustration sounding in his voice. “It’s still not enough to identify him.”

  “Not yet.” She used her toolbar to trace the man’s visible features, and then selected another program to provide them with a blank drawing grid. Pasting the features on the page, she returned to the photos with renewed eagerness and began searching and zooming again. “We may not be lucky enough to get a full-face shot. But maybe we’ll get enough to piece together a reasonable resemblance. Enough anyway to ID him.”

  Hours went by, but filled with a renewed sense of purpose Delaney didn’t really notice. After going through the entire
assortment of photos, they had four more that provided them with pieces to add to the grid. As well as two chilling partial shots of a rifle muzzle aimed in what must have been her direction.

  Joe watched in silence while she manipulated the bits of the shooter’s face on the grid, like clicking puzzle pieces together, until she had a fair representation of a person, minus the lower left quadrant of his features.

  “That’s not bad,” he said, studying it. “You even managed to get the parts close in size, proportionately. I think our composite artist will be able to sketch in the rest.”

  “And then what?” She yawned, and worked her shoulders to dislodge the stiffness there.

  “I’ll compare it to shots in the mug file, see if I can find a match. Show it to whoever owns that property.”

  He stood, forcing her to push her chair back and rise, as well. “And then what?”

  “Then I’ll have to take a trip back there and start talking to families in the area.”

  She yawned again and began to follow him out of the room. It wasn’t until she reached the doorway and nearly bumped into him that she realized he’d stopped to lean against the doorjamb, eyes on her.

  Delaney had a crazy flashback to the first time she’d seen him, in almost the same spot, almost the exact position. She’d been afraid to squeeze by him that time, too, but for a very different reason. This time she knew precisely how his hard frame would feel pressed against hers and it was that knowledge that kept her rooted in place.

  He was silent for long moments, his gaze brooding. Her patience whittled away by lack of sleep, she finally snapped, “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said this afternoon. About not repeating what happened between us last night.”

  There was a buzzing in her ears, a warmth creeping down her spine. “I think that would be best.”

  “Probably. Smartest, too. Are we going to be smart, Delaney?” His black gaze bore into hers and the space between them seemed to shrink.

  No, shrieked a voice deep inside her, one that had gotten her in trouble in the past. No, no, no!

  “Yes,” she said firmly, and clutched her arms to keep her hands from trembling. “We are.”

  There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, so fleeting that she blinked, wondering if it had been there at all.

  He didn’t agree or disagree, for which she was grateful, just gave her one last long look and said, “Lock the door after me.” Then he walked away.

  She followed him to the door, this time at a safe distance, noting that it was past three. He couldn’t have left much before five yesterday morning. He had to be exhausted. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to be careful, but she swallowed the words.

  She’d be wise to heed her own warning. Because if the last couple days had proved anything at all, she was the one who needed to be careful where Joe Youngblood was concerned.

  “I already told you. That wasn’t my phone. I found it at a party and picked it up, thinking it belonged to a buddy of mine. So what?” Brant Graywolf stared at Joe across the table of the interview room the next morning and gave a bored hitch of his shoulder. “When you messaged me I figured I’d pull a prank on one of his friends and show up instead of him.”

  “And did it belong to one of your friends?”

  “Guess not. I threw it away after I found that out. I don’t even know this Quintero guy you’re talking about.”

  “That’s what you keep saying.” Joe didn’t bother to mask his derision. “But you know what I think? I think you were one of his clients. How about it, Brant? You score from Quintero? Was he your supplier?”

  The boy never lost his poise. “I already told you. I don’t do drugs anymore. I’m done with all that.”

  That earnest schoolboy look might have fooled his teachers and coaches when he was a star athlete at Tuba City High. Might have scammed his father into believing that the boy on whom he’d showered every conceivable material possession was finally done sowing his wild oats.

  But it didn’t convince Joe. His BS detector was better developed than most. If an adult had done half of what Graywolf had done as a juvenile, he’d have been in prison.

  Joe crossed his arms and gave the boy a mocking smile. “So getting kicked out of three colleges for possession scared you straight, huh? Wish I could believe that.”

  “Believe it. Sir.” The earnest facade cracked a little, allowing some of his cockiness through. “I’m going back to school in the fall and turning over a new leaf. Just ask my dad.”

  The mention of the boy’s father was probably meant to intimidate. The Graywolf family owned and operated the largest construction firm in the area, with a half-dozen branch offices scattered throughout the Southwest. But neither the family’s wealth nor stature in the community meant jack to Joe. Somehow this kid was connected to Quintero. Joe was willing to bet that Oree’s phone would prove it, too.

  “Always nice to see a wiseass kid turn into a pillar of the community,” he responded, his voice as insincere as Graywolf’s. “So I guess when the tech completes the dump on Quintero’s cell, we aren’t going to find any calls from his phone to yours. Since you don’t know him.”

  The kid’s gaze flicked to the one-way glass at the far end of the interview room. “That phone wasn’t mine, remember?”

  “Yeah, so you said.” Joe stared at him, letting the silence stretch and grow tense. Most people, especially people under stress, didn’t like silence. There was a human compulsion to fill it, to maybe blurt out things they didn’t mean to say, and later regretted.

  But Graywolf slanted another glance at the one-way glass and clamped his lips, folding his hands on the table like a choirboy in prayer. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “I don’t know. Is there?”

  “Nope. Sorry.” The chair scraped the floor as the kid pushed away from the table, stood. He picked up his jacket, which he’d hung carefully on the back of the chair. Like the rest of him, it looked expensive and useless. Shrugging into it, he gave Joe a nasty grin. “Heard you killed that guy. Quintero. How’d that feel?”

  Joe stared at him, not responding. Their gazes did battle for a moment before the kid lifted a hand and sauntered to the door. Joe let him get halfway through it before saying, “Oh, Brant? I’ll be in touch.”

  There was a hesitation in the kid’s stride, just for a moment. Then without a backward glance he walked away.

  Leaning forward, Joe reached for the tape recorder on the table and pressed the stop button. He was allowing it to rewind when Captain Tapahe came into the room. “What’d you think?” The captain had watched the entire interview from behind the one-way glass.

  “I think if the kid’s daddy had gotten wind that we were talking to him, he’d have been lawyered up before coming in here.”

  “His choice. I’m guessing he doesn’t want his father involved unless absolutely necessary.” Joe would be willing to place bets on it. Even a father’s patience would be stretched to the breaking point with the scrapes the kid had been in the last few years. No, Brant Graywolf would try to handle this on his own as long as possible. “He won’t alert the old man unless we get too close.”

  “Won’t get anything from him then, either.”

  “No. So if the need arises, we’ll play him another way.” Brant Graywolf was a smug little SOB with a royalty’s sense of entitlement. As long as he thought he was outsmarting the police, outsmarting Joe, he’d consider this all a game. Joe was perfectly willing to play. But he’d make the rules.

  “Who’s up next?”

  “Mary Barlow. She was Quintero’s main squeeze, so chances are she won’t be feeling too cooperative, either.”

  The captain nodded. “Well, keep working through the list of his acquaintances. We should have the retrieved phone log by tomorrow, the next day at the latest.”

  Joe nodded and rose. “I didn’t get any answer to the messages I left for Barlow so I’m going to her place.”


  “Want me to assign someone to ride along?”

  He shook his head. If he knew Arnie, he’d be back before the ink dried on the doctor’s release orders. It’d take him that long to bring someone new up to speed on the case. “I can handle it.”

  Tapahe waved him off. “Keep me posted.”

  Joe promised to do so, and the two men parted. But three hours later he was beginning to wonder if there’d be anything to report. Barlow was proving elusive. No one had answered at the run-down motel where she rented a room by the month. Nor had there been any sign of her at her sister’s house across town. He’d checked out all the spots Barlow frequented, the list supplied grudgingly by her sibling, to no avail.

  Although the sister denied it, he began to consider in earnest that the woman might have skipped town. Her sheet wasn’t as long as Quintero’s, but she had priors. A couple solicitation charges and a misdemeanor for possession. There was no outstanding warrant for her, however, so there’d be no urgent need for her to leave. Unless she knew something.

  Rather than chase after her any further, Joe drove back to the motel, parked his unmarked black Jeep a few doors down from Barlow’s room and prepared to wait. Investigations were all about waiting. Arnie had once accused him of having the patience of a sphinx. Recently, though, thanks to his ex, even his patience was strained to the limit.

  An hour and forty minutes later, a battered white Grand Am pulled into the slot in front of the nearby motel door. Even with her hair pulled up and wearing sunglasses, he recognized Mary Barlow from her mug shot. He let her get several feet from her car and start fumbling in her purse for her keys before he got out of the Jeep and approached her.

  “Ms. Barlow?”

  The woman whirled, her movement jerky and fraught with tension. “What? Who are you? What do you want?”

  She was jittery with nerves, or something chemical. Joe forced his voice low and soothing. “Tribal police investigator Joseph Youngblood, ma’am.” He drew out his ID and flipped it open as he stopped before her. “I have a few questions for you.”