by Kylie Brant
“I ain’t talking to no cop. Especially after one of you killed Oree. You can all burn in hell. You hear me?” Her voice had gone shrill.
The sentiment was unsurprisingly similar to the one Quintero had verbalized yesterday. Joe tucked away his ID. “I thought it’d be easier for you to talk to me here. But we can go downtown if you’d prefer.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “What I’d prefer is for Oree to still be alive. He never hurt no one and the cops shot him in cold blood.”
“Were you there?” His question seemed to catch her off guard. “How do you know how things went down?”
Her fingers clenched around her purse. “Didn’t have to be there. I hear things. And I know how cops operate.”
“And I have some questions about how Oree operated. Do you want to answer them here or inside?”
Barlow looked at the key in her hand, then shook her head, dropped it back in her purse. “I ain’t letting you in my place. Don’t have to, either. You don’t got a warrant.”
“No problem,” he said mildly, surveying her. “We can talk out here. Tell me about your relationship with Oree.”
When her thin lips tightened mutinously, he shrugged. “Or I can take you back to the station and we’ll talk there. Makes no difference to me, if you’ve got the time.”
He watched her struggle with that for several seconds before she folded her arms across the surgically enhanced chest straining against her skimpy belly shirt. “What do you wanna know?”
“You were his girlfriend?”
She sniffed. “Girlfriend. Mother. Sister. Priest. I was everything to Oree. He was a needy kind of guy, you know?”
“How much time did you spend together? Did you see him every day? Every night?” If she’d been around as much as Joe suspected, there was no way she could have avoided knowing about his drug involvement.
The same fact seemed to have occurred to her, as well. “I was around. But I had my own life, okay? I can’t tell you much about what he did when I wasn’t there. What time we had together we didn’t spend talking.”
He reached out, took the sunglasses off her face. She tried to swat his hand away, but he dodged the action, let the glasses dangle from his fingers. “I like to see who I’m speaking to.” And he wanted to be able to tell if she was lying to him. “You knew he was involved in drugs.”
She shook her head hard at his statement. “Uh-uh, no sir. I didn’t know nothing about that, and you can’t prove differently.”
“No.” He waited, saw the relief flicker across her face, then added, “Not yet, anyway. But we’re rounding up all his clients and we’ll be asking them about Oree. About you. Funny thing, when people think they’re going down on a drug charge, they get real conversational. If you were there during any of the transactions, we’re going to hear about it sooner or later.”
She lifted a shoulder, the gesture as bored as her expression. He took a notebook out of his pocket, flipped it open. “You know any of these people?” He began reading off the names of Quintero’s known acquaintances. Each name was punctuated with a short, “Nope,” until he got to the name he’d purposefully left for last. Gaze on her face, he said, “How about Brant Graywolf. You know him?”
She ducked her head, her hand fishing in her purse, until she came up with her room key. Hefting the straps of her purse over her shoulder, she reached out and plucked the glasses from his hand, settling them on her nose. “No. I told you, I didn’t mix in Oree’s business. He didn’t mix in mine. Now I got appointments and you’re holding me up.”
“What kind of business you in, Mary?”
“I’m a masseuse. Got my license and everything.”
“What’s your phone number?”
Suspicion registered in her expression. “Why?”
“Maybe I’ll call for a massage someday. What’s your number?” When the cell phone forensics came back on Quintero’s, he wanted to be able to identify as many of the phone numbers as possible.
After she told him and he wrote it down, she unlocked her room door and stepped inside. “I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t want you bothering me again.”
Joe didn’t respond, just stood and watched as she slammed the door. He heard the dead bolt snap into place on the other side. The only truths she’d revealed had all been nonverbal. Her heavily made-up eyes had been red and swollen. Perhaps her grief over Oree’s death was genuine. As genuine as the emotion that had flashed across her face when he’d mentioned Graywolf’s name.
Fear.
Chapter 7
When she heard the knock on her front door that morning, Delaney froze, certain for a moment it was Joe. Which didn’t explain the crazy little spiral of heat that traversed from her belly to her chest, because she had her hormones, all her emotions, firmly under control now. A couple nights’ sleep had done wonders for reestablishing the emotional distance that had served her well the last two years. And the fact that she hadn’t seen or heard from Joe Youngblood since she’d given him those pictures hadn’t hurt, either.
The knock sounded again, and something inside her eased. It was hard to imagine Joe knocking when her Jeep was parked out front. Up to this point, he hadn’t exactly proved to be a staunch observer of etiquette.
“Miss Carson?”
It was also hard to imagine Joe ever addressing her in that openly flirtatious manner. The face of the man on the other side of her screen door was split in a wide grin. “Yes.”
“I’m Edison Bahe. You can call me Eddie. The Tribal Council hired me as your guide.”
Eddie Bahe was tall, whipcord lean, with strong white teeth that flashed in a perpetual smile. He also had a steady stream of patter that was nearly impossible to interrupt. “I know it’s rather early in the morning but I was in the area and thought I’d stop and say hello. Just to introduce myself and maybe get an idea of your plans. What you want to see first. Where you want to go. President Taos put me at your disposal, ma’am.”
When he paused to take a breath, Delaney unlatched the door and joined him on the porch. “I recognize your name.” Charley had mentioned it at dinner the other night. “I thought we were scheduled to meet Saturday, but the details were left vague. Where do you suggest I start?”
“Well…” Eddie tipped his cowboy hat back, appeared deep in thought. “We’re just fifty miles east of the Grand Canyon, eighty miles southwest of Monument Valley and seventy miles north of the San Francisco Peaks. You’ll have to see Canyon de Chelly, of course, but you’ll want to devote more time to it. It’s about three hours from here. You might want to consider getting a camping permit before going there.”
“I believe President Taos included one in the papers he sent along for me.”
“The thing I’d recommend-” Eddie leaned a hand against the porch post “-is to start tomorrow instead of Saturday. We could go to Monument Valley real early and be back in time to hit the flea market in town. It’d be a touristy sort of thing, but would also be a great way for you to see lots of Navajo crafts and taste some home-cooked dishes.”
Beneath Eddie’s polished veneer, Delaney realized, beat a cash register for a heart. She smiled. “I didn’t realize I needed a guide to get to the flea market.”
His perpetual grin turned sheepish. “’Course you don’t. But I do know which vendors have the best turquoise for the best value. And who sells the best-tasting corn cake.”
It wouldn’t hurt, she supposed, to take Eddie along that first time. She’d already learned that Navajos, through their clan system, had extensive family connections. Her first several weeks on the reservation would be spent making acquaintances and connections of her own. He might be able to facilitate that.
“All right, we’ll start tomorrow,” she decided. “But we’ll do the flea market first, then if there’s still time we’ll head to Monument Valley.”
His face lit up at the words. “That’s fine with me. I’ll pick you up at-”
“How about I pick you up,”
she interrupted him. With the equipment she’d be bringing, it’d be easier to pack her own vehicle.
He gave her a slow wink. “Never let it be said that Eddie Bahe turned down a ride from a beautiful lady.” He gave her directions to his house, which was located in one of the new housing developments just inside the city limits.
“Tomorrow morning, 9:00 a.m. sharp,” she called after him, as he headed back toward his older model black Chevy pickup. “If you’re not ready, you walk.” He was in the truck, backing away from the house when she thought to add, “Rocky Mountain Time.” She thought she saw his teeth flash one more time before he turned onto the road headed back to town.
Time was one thing she struggled with on Navajo Nation lands. The Navajo language had no word for it. And to make things more confusing, Tuba City was in two time zones, with half going by Rocky Mountain daylight saving time, sometimes called Navajo time, and the other half going by Rocky Mountain standard time. Meeting up with Eddie tomorrow morning could prove interesting.
She headed back into the house to shower and dress. She was scheduled to meet with Charley again that afternoon, as she had for the last few days. Mindful of Joe’s warning, she had been careful to not stay for more than three or four hours at a time. It meant more frequent trips but Charley seemed to welcome the company and she certainly didn’t mind. He was one of the most fascinating men she’d ever met, and completely irresistible.
Stripping off her clothes, she turned on the shower and stepped inside. But not before it occurred to her that the only man she’d met in years that she trusted absolutely was an eighty-year-old Navajo elder.
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
Joe was finishing the report, compiling the conversations he’d had with Quintero’s acquaintances that day. Balefully, he glared at the computer monitor as another phrase was underlined by the software program, indicating a problem with his spelling, sentence structure, or both. He was a cop, not a novelist. Arnie and he had a system. He could usually coax the other man into writing the reports, if he also let him drive when they were in the Jeep. It was tough to sit in the passenger seat day after day, especially given Arnie’s driving ability, but it was far worse to type the endless reports at day’s end.
He was still pecking away at the computer when he heard Vicki Smith, the office specialist, behind him. “Visitor for you, Joe.”
Turning, he saw a slight, bespectacled man with fading blond hair and blue eyes. Bruce Glenn, his former father-in-law.
Warily he stood, shot a glance at Vicki, who merely raised her eyebrows and moved away. “Bruce.”
“Joe. I hate to bother you at work. The thing is, I’ve called your house a few times and can’t seem to find you at home. I thought I’d take a chance on catching you here.”
“Is something wrong? With Heather? Jonny?” A parent’s dread reared quickly. He’d just spoken to his son last night, and he’d seemed his usual exuberant self.
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
Relief filtered through Joe and he noticed for the first time Garcia at her desk, diligently appearing as though she weren’t listening. Several other officers were in the vicinity, as well. “Follow me.” He led Bruce to the staff room, and stared at the lone occupant who was hovering hopefully over the coffee maker. After several seconds the man glanced up, looked from Joe to Bruce and excused himself.
When he’d left, Joe let the door shut behind him and faced Glenn. “What’s on your mind, Bruce?” He’d always gotten along well enough with the man during his marriage to Heather. When they’d been dating, Bruce had made no bones about the fact that he didn’t think Joe was good enough for his daughter, but then, no one would have lived up to his expectations for the girl he’d raised alone and, in Joe’s estimation, spoiled beyond belief. She’d had an indulged childhood, with summers spent accompanying her father on ruin restoration projects in the Yucatán and winter breaks skiing in Aspen. After the wedding, though, the man had been cordial, and he’d doted on Jonny since the boy’s birth.
“Well, it’s Heather, of course.” Bruce took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt, a familiar absentminded gesture of his. “I don’t mind saying, it’s tough for me, not having her and Jonny nearby. Especially in the summer, when I have more time on my hands.” He’d taught history at Tuba City High for nearly thirty years now. “It can’t be easy for you, either. Occasional weekends with the boy, when you were used to seeing him nearly every day.”
As if the words had barbs, they arrowed deep into his chest. Twisted. Joe’s jaw tightened. “No. It’s not easy.”
“Maybe you could do something to get her to return here.” Bruce settled the glasses back on his nose and swallowed hard. “This situation…it’s not good for any of us. It’s got to be hard for Jonny to understand all the changes in his life recently. He needs his family around him at a time like this. All of his family.”
It was hard to disagree. Jonny’s home was here. His family was here, his grandfather and great-grandfather. His friends. Even the T-ball team he’d hoped to play on this summer. Heather had disrupted all that when she’d insisted on moving to Window Rock. She’d said she needed to find work. Joe remained unconvinced. She’d never worked a day in her life, and he was certain Bruce would have been glad to resume supporting her.
So that meant she’d done it solely to punish him. Maybe because he’d never been able to figure out how to make her happy. Probably because he’d finally gotten tired of trying.
“I don’t know what I can do. The custody hearing date is set for three weeks from now. Until then we both have to wait.”
“C’mon.” Bruce shuffled his feet, tried for a smile. “You’re a cop. You’ve got friends all over the reservation who are cops. You can make things…difficult for her, can’t you? You could make her see it’s better all around if she just comes home.”
Joe eyed him narrowly. “I’m not quite sure what you’re suggesting.”
“What I’m suggesting is that you prove you love your son, even if you no longer love my daughter.” His voice had risen with the statement, and Joe glanced at the closed door, wondering how many officers outside it were listening. “What I’m suggesting is that you use any means necessary to do what’s best for Jonny. Or don’t you care that your son is living among strangers? That you have to content yourself with every other weekend visits when you used to be a real part of his life?”
“Yes, I care.” Joe kept his voice low, his anger held in check. “But I’m not going to pull some stupid stunt that will jeopardize my case when it gets to court. I don’t like this situation any better than you do, but we both have to give this some time. It will sort itself out in the end.” He had to believe that. Had to believe his lawyer’s prediction of his chances in court. Because some days it was the only thing that kept him going.
Curious now, he looked more closely at the man. Bruce seemed thinner, a little stooped in the shoulders, and it was obvious that the situation was wearing on him, as well. “You’ve always had a close relationship with Heather. I can’t believe she wouldn’t listen to you if you tried to talk to her.”
The man puffed out a breath. “Heather hasn’t been listening to much I have to say for the last several months. I don’t know where her head is, I really don’t.” He sighed, straightened. “Just…promise you’ll think about what I said, Joe. Custody cases are never a sure thing. You may need to use other means to bring your son home.”
Bruce reached for the doorknob and Joe stood aside, let him leave. It was probably the first time in Bruce’s life that he hadn’t gotten his daughter to do exactly as he wanted. Well, the second time, given that she’d married Joe. But clearly Bruce was desperate if he’d come here, begging Joe to…do what? Arrange some sort of private harassment for his ex? Kidnap his son?
Joe shook his head. Would his desperation reach Bruce’s level if things didn’t go his way in court? He didn’t want to think about the complications that would arise should he
be forced to transfer to be closer to his son. Charley was over eighty, and although he’d made it through the bypass surgery, he was at the age where he needed his family around him.
Deliberately, Joe closed the door on the staff room, trying to leave those thoughts behind, as well.
Captain Tapahe was waiting impatiently by his desk. “You’ve got a call, Joe.” As his stride quickened, the man lowered his voice. “You can take it in my office. It’s President Taos.”
Joe strode into the other man’s office, picked up the receiver. “This is Youngblood.”
“Frank Taos, here, Joe. We’ve never met, but your captain has been singing your praises.”
Warily, Joe looked up as the captain joined him in the office, closing the door behind him. “That’s good to hear.”
“I’m just checking on how you’re coming on that incident involving Delaney Carson. I don’t think I have to tell you just how delicate the matter is.”
“I checked it out. The place was deserted, but it’s clear there had been some sort of illegal activity there. Whoever fired those shots did it to scare her away from the operation.”
“So your captain said.” There was an expectant pause, but Joe had no idea what he was expected to say to fill it. “Have you talked to the owner yet?”
“Not yet.” Apparently politicians had far more time on their hands than did tribal police investigators. “I’m in the middle of a multiagency drug investigation.”
“Which I’m sure is a priority. But I wanted you to know that I consider the Carson incident a priority, too. I’d like you to give it your closest attention. Wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on the woman yourself, until we know for sure she’s in no danger.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” At his captain’s scowl, Joe added a belated, “Sir.”
“And I think it is.” The steel in the man’s tone was unmistakable. “If you have too much on your plate I’m sure I can talk to some people, get you reassigned to free up more of your time. It’s your call.”