The Ties That Bind

by Andi Marquette

  I gave her the number as Sage walked in, wrapped in a towel. She looked at me, expression questioning. I mouthed "Chris" to her and she smiled and reached for the phone.

  "Somebody wants to talk to you," I said to Chris before I handed the phone to Sage.

  "Officer Gutierrez," Sage said, "I need a favor. Can you bring a couple of bottles of that wine we like? We're not going to have time to get it and I'd like a wider assortment of New Mexico alcohol." She paused, listening, then started laughing. "That's a hard bargain. I'm sure K.C. won't mind if we have another dinner party over here, though." She looked at me and smiled then finished up with Chris. "That'd be great. Thanks. See you later." She handed the phone back to me and left the room.

  "You've been Saged," I said, grinning.

  "Damn, esa. Nobody can refuse your girlfriend," Chris replied, laughing.

  "I know." I pretended a long-suffering air. "If she asked you to hold up a bank, the only thing you'd want to know is when and where." I pushed my chair back across the floor toward my desk, skimming along the edge of the rug again. "Hey, does Dayna want to come up with us, since Jerry's making you go to work?"

  "She's at the office today, too. She's got a few big cases coming up and she gets to be the main prosecutor, so she's making sure she knows her shit."

  "Like there's any doubt." I rolled my chair across the floor again, this time toward Sage's desk.

  "True."

  I heard Chris's smile through the phone. "You are so in love," I crowed. "Totally. Big, bad cop chick falls for hard-edged but groovy lawyer. That could be a new program on Showtime. Hot lezzie police detective refuses to believe anyone will ever want her because of the weird hours and nasty shit she has to deal with. Enter hot lezzie attorney with a great laugh who thinks her job is her life. Their eyes meet at a conference and--I see it now. 'Law and Disorder.' "

  Chris started laughing again. "I knew there was a reason I've kept you around the last twelve years. Your damn jokes."

  "My undying loyalty as your best friend in the whole world isn't it?" I tried to sound hurt.

  "Well, there's that."

  "Duh!" I laughed as well and rolled back to my desk. My gaze fell on the article I'd taped to the computer. "Okay, quick jurisdiction

  question."

  "Jesus, Kase. What'd you do?"

  "Nothing, yet. I'm preparing, should that come to pass. You know how I am about research."

  "Sadly, I do. What's up?"

  I pulled the article off the computer. "Dead white guy on the Navajo Rez. Who handles the investigation?"

  "Depends. Since he's white--has the medical examiner established that yet?"

  "Don't know. I assume so, since it says in the paper that he is." I scanned the text again.

  "Okay, so operating under that assumption," Chris continued, "how did he die?"

  "They don't know. The article says 'authorities speculate the man was hit by a car.' So I'm guessing lots of blunt force trauma and injuries consistent with that."

  Chris made a sound in the affirmative. "That's not much info. But here's where it could get sticky. If he was killed on the reservation--and if he was killed by someone who's Navajo--then the tribal police are major players in the investigation. However, since it's a murder on Indian land, the feds could get involved if they feel it's warranted. Serious crimes like that--if a crime was perpetrated--in Indian country mean the feds can follow up, but ultimately, jurisdiction depends on the circumstances of the case. I'm sure the feds will at least check it out. The vic is white--any info on the perp?"

  "No. Just speculation based on the victim's injuries. And he was out there for a few days before somebody found him. Isolated road and all. He might have died some other way." I studied the article. Whatever it was, it wasn't "natural."

  "Shit. It's hot out there. Decomposition probably didn't help matters any," Chris mused. "It's been dry, though. Monsoons ended three weeks ago." I was thinking aloud, spinning around in my chair. "Anybody know how he got out there?" "No. Ten miles outside Shiprock. No car. No ID. I thought maybe some locals rolled him. I'd argue he was from Farmington."

  "Most likely," Chris said, though she didn't sound convinced. "Still, they might have just been screwing around and took him out there then left him there as a joke and somebody else came along later and killed him. And that person might have been Navajo. And it might have been an accident. Maybe whoever hit him didn't see him. Just hit a bump, didn't think anything of it. Since people aren't wandering around out there for the most part, why would whoever hit the guy--if that's what happened--think he'd hit a person?"

  I loved bouncing ideas around with Chris. She approached police work the way I approached my own research. She didn't buy into any one explanation unless the evidence led her there. I posed another question. "So since the guy was white, the feds could have jurisdiction over his body. But since they won't know for sure what killed him until after an autopsy, the investigation is either on hold or being handled by tribal police and feds?"

  "Since he was white, yes," Chris concurred. "The feds probably get to deal with the body. But this investigation might be problematic if a Navajo killed him. And since the vic is white, Navajo authorities may have already released the body for autopsy."

  "But it fucks up the investigation regardless, because the longer you wait--"

  "The colder the trail gets. And you know how things are between tribal police forces and federal law agencies. No love lost there. So what's up with this?" she asked, interested.

  "I thought it'd make a good case study for my sociology of crime class. How race and the sovereignty of Indian nations can affect how a crime is approached and how it's handled and, hopefully, solved. I like to do 'ripped from the headlines' shit. And since it's a local case, the kiddies might resonate with it."

  "I love it when you sound all smart like that," Chris said, laughing. "It does sound interesting. Maybe I'll poke around in that one. I'll see if I know anybody at the Farmington department."

  "That'd be awesome, mujer. I might turn this into a semester-long 'see how this shit can affect people today' project thingie."

  Chris chuckled. "Nice use of technical terms. Anyway, I've gotta jet, esa."

  "Okay, go save the world and all that. We'll see you when we see you." I stuck the article back on my computer monitor.

  "Gracias. Hasta."

  "Yep. Later, gator." We hung up and I was about to put my phone on my desk when I remembered to call Kara. One ring. Two. Three...voicemail. I sighed.

  "Hi, it's Kara. Leave a message and I'll get back to you soon. Breathe, reflect, and have a lovely day!"

  "Hey, it's me," I said. "Sage and I need to know when you'll be coming. Give me a buzz when you get a chance. Thanks. Hope you're all right. Later." And you have yourself a super groovy ultra-peaceful day! I hung up and set the phone on my desk, thinking about Kara, who somehow got stuck in the sixties though she was born in 1973.

  Nobody on either side of our family knew where Kara's sensibilities came from. My dad's side--the Italian half--gave up on her when she entered high school and proclaimed herself a vegan and started wearing tie-dye shirts she found in second-hand clothing stores. My mom's side--from staid New England stock, some of whom ended up in Texas--wondered what the hell the Italian side did to her while she was growing up. My older sister Joely, who taught literature at a private liberal arts college back East, considered Kara an amusing anomaly and wrote short stories with hippie characters based on her. For my part, I just hoped Kara wouldn't get herself involved in some freaky underground eco-cult that I'd have to infiltrate. I stood and stretched, sighing. I'd done my sibling duty and left a message.

  Sage's phone rang in the bedroom and I heard her pick up on the second ring. Thinking I'd save us some time, I started loading her framed photographs--each wrapped in foam and bubble wrap--into the trunk of her Toyota Camry. A few I had to position carefully on the back seat. Twenty-five photos later, I locked the car and went insid
e. Sage was still talking on the phone, so I headed into the bathroom for a shower. I finished and as I was toweling off on the rug next to the tub, Sage appeared in the open doorway. A troubled expression shadowed her face.

  "What's up?" I asked, stopping my drying.

  "That was River."

  "Is he okay?" I searched Sage's eyes. "No run-ins with Montana wildlife on guide trips?" Sage's brother sometimes had to deal with that when he took hunters out into the wilderness for the company that employed him.

  "He's fine. But he got a letter from Dad." Sage still held her phone and she tapped it rhythmically against her thigh.

  "A letter? Your dad hasn't contacted either of you in years." I stated the obvious.

  "He read it to me. It's really strange." Her eyes clouded.

  As I waited for her to continue, I finished drying off and hung the towel on one of the hooks we'd installed.

  "He--Dad--said he was sorry to bother River, but he just wanted him to know that even though he'd been a bad father, he hoped that River and I didn't carry that around and let it mess us up."

  I leaned against the sink, watching her face. Sage hadn't addressed her baggage with her dad much over the two years we'd been together.

  "Which was fucked up enough. But then he said that there was something going on where he works, something that's not right and it could hurt a lot of people and he was thinking about telling someone about it."

  "Where's he working?"

  "Ridge Star Drilling. And you'll love this. In Farmington." She shook her head, obvious distaste on her elegant features.

  I stared at her. "Your dad's in New Mexico? How long?"

  "Don't know. It wasn't in the letter."

  "Okay, wait. So he writes to River to apologize for being a shitty father and to talk about something bad at a place he works?" I frowned, puzzled.

  "I know. But it gets freakier. He said that if anything happened to him, chances are it was because of what's going on at work."

  I ran a hand through my damp hair. "Is he suggesting that someone's going to whack him for whistle-blowing?" My thoughts jumped to the article I'd cut out of the paper that morning. Body on the Rez. White guy--hell, no. Just a coincidence. I pushed that thought way to the back of my mind.

  Sage's eyebrows raised, lips curved in a wry smile. "Apparently so, Ms. Corleone." She closed the distance between us and pecked me on the cheek. "I just love it when your Italian side shows itself."

  "Sorry, honey. I'm not trying to make light of this. It's just--"

  "Bizarre."

  "Good word. So did he say what's going on at Ridge Star?" Like it's something we need to worry about. Or can do anything about.

  Sage pulled away and motioned me toward the door. "I'll tell you more while you get dressed. We're running a little late."

  I padded into the bedroom and dressed in my usual summer outfit. Cargo shorts, tee, and Birkenstocks while Sage talked.

  "He said that Ridge Star was covering up safety violations and that there have been a few injuries and two deaths at the site in the last three months and the company covered up the cause, which my father seems to think was the result of bad management and faulty equipment that Ridge Star didn't want to pay to have fixed."

  "But most everybody knows the oil and gas industry isn't the safest job on the block," I said. "I mean, some of those companies are very bad about safety. And the nature of the jobs themselves--it's a wonder more guys aren't killed or maimed. It's like mining." I put a pair of jeans and a white button-down shirt in a duffle bag, positioning them over my black cowboy boots. My outfit for the evening.

  "True. But he seems to think that this is a conspiracy, beyond just the usual shit in the quest for a profit," she said dryly.

  "So what the hell are you and River supposed to do about it?" I picked up the duffle bag, irritated that this asshole from my girlfriend's past was putting this heavy trip on her.

  "I don't know. He said that he's sorry for laying this on us, but he wanted somebody to know in case something happened to him and he doesn't trust anyone else."

  "He put that in the letter?" There's an irony for you. He doesn't trust anyone.

  Sage nodded and turned toward the doorway. I picked up her duffle bag from the bed and followed her to the front door. "River said he sent pictures," she said, voice strained.

  "Of what?"

  Sage opened the heavy inner front door then the security door. I preceded her onto the porch. "One of himself and--this is fucked up--one of each of his arms."

  I watched as she locked up. "His arms?" What the hell?

  She regarded me, an uneasiness in her eyes. "On one, he's got River's name tattooed and on the other, mine."

  "Holy shit. Why the hell did he want you to know that? Proof that he's loved you, even though he's been an abusive drunk and an absent father most of your lives?"

  Sage didn't reply right away and instead she headed down the porch steps to the walk and then to her car, parked on the street. She unlocked it with her key fob and I positioned the duffle bags on top of the framed photographs on the back seat, protecting them further from shifting around. We were in and buckled up before she said anything. She smoothed the dark blue sari she was wearing as a skirt.

  "He told River that if something happened to him, chances are that whoever messed him up would try to make him harder to identify." Her tone was brittle as she started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  I reached over and squeezed her thigh. I didn't know what to say to that. She covered my hand with hers briefly, before she had to shift. I watched her, knowing she was thinking about this, sorting through the various emotions that her father triggered.

  "It's not fair of him," she muttered as she turned left onto Carlisle. "Putting this responsibility on us. He's never acted like we were family. Now he puts this obligation on us."

  I left my hand on her thigh, letting her know I was listening and giving her the space to vent. She exited onto eastbound I-40 and accelerated, glancing over her left shoulder. She settled into her seat and flashed a smile at me. "Time enough to think about it later." She reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "We have an exhibit to put together and a reception to enjoy." She turned on her car stereo and the gritty but soft voice of Robbie Robertson emanated from the speakers, doing his mellow, Native American-tinged rock.

  "Damn right," I agreed. I took her hand and we spent the rest of the drive singing along to the CD and talking about the gallery layout and Sage's meeting in Santa Fe that afternoon. By the time we got to Madrid, the strange letter had faded into the background of my mind.

  Chapter Two

  I STEPPED BACK, appraising the framed photograph. Still crooked. I reached out and shifted the bottom left-hand side just a tad. I checked it again and instead got caught up in the image itself, in the splash of sunset on the southwestern canyon wall and the sparkle of light on water. I liked pairing this with one Sage had taken in the Amazon basin. The contrast of browns and reds with greens and blues made your eyes travel back and forth between them, appreciating the contrasts but also finding similarities in the curves of the different landscapes.

  "K.C.," came Maureen Jackson's voice behind me.

  I turned. "Yeah?" I smiled at her. She stood a couple of inches taller than me and she wore her short blond hair spiked, which made her seem even taller. Her left ear carried at least seven piercings, all silver studs that increased in size from top to lobe. One silver hoop graced her right ear. Her faded black t-shirt bore an image of Che Guevara. Groovy New Mexico art woman. That was Maureen. She and her husband Dan ran the gallery.

  "I just wanted to introduce you to another one of our fabulous gallery personages," Maureen said, smiling. "This is Shoshana. If you need anything, let her know. She's my right hand around here." Maureen indicated the newcomer with a sweep of her arm.

  Hippie nature girl, I categorized. The kind of cute that appealed to both men and women. Maybe I'd bring Kara up here to bond with h
er in a drum circle. Her dark mahogany hair hung just past her ears, several strands died royal blue, which worked on her. She wore a light blue skirt and a plain white v-neck tee that accentuated her tight, compact build. The pendant that hung on the leather thong around her neck looked like jade and it matched the color of her eyes. She stood a few inches shorter than me. "Hi." I smiled and extended my right hand. "I'm K.C. Nice to meet you and thanks a bunch in advance."

  She took my hand in hers and squeezed gently, holding on a little too long. "Absolutely no problem at all," she responded in a voice that hid traces of laughter and mystery. "My pleasure." She slowly released my hand.

  Whoa. Strange vibe. I cleared my throat and shifted my attention back to Maureen.

  "Do you need help hanging the rest of the photos?" Maureen asked, hooking her thumbs on the front belt loops of her jeans.

  "No, but thanks," I said. "There're just a few more."

  Maureen looked at her watch. "You've got plenty of time before the opening. Have you had lunch? I can get you something at Back Road. Good pizza, you know," she coaxed.

  "I'm fine." I smiled. "But if you maybe have a Diet Coke stashed somewhere?"

  "I'll take care of it," Shoshana said before Maureen had a chance to respond. She brushed past me and disappeared through a curtained entrance into the back rooms of the gallery.

  Maureen shrugged with a "well, all right, then" expression. "I'll leave you to it. I have to check on the food for later." She left by the front door and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as it closed behind her. No buffer between me and hippie nature girl with the intense energy. I glanced at the curtain that separated me from Shoshana and set to work again. Maybe she'd ignore me and do important art gallery things. I crossed the concrete floor to the pale blue wall the last three images that I had yet to hang leaned against.

  I picked up the one in front--a stunning shot of Taos Pueblo at dawn--and carried it to the place Sage had demarcated before she left for Santa Fe two hours ago for a meeting with a foundation representative. Sage's photographic expeditions received lots of funding from a variety of sources because she was good. No, better than that. Superb. Her work was often featured in magazines like National Geographic and Outside. Most recently there had been a write-up about her in New Mexico Magazine, and it had plugged this opening at Jackson's Gallery, a walled adobe gem amidst the preponderance of ramshackle clapboard structures of Madrid.