"Agreed. So what's up with Kara?"
I gave Chris the short version and when I finished, Chris shook her head, partially shocked, mostly amused. "Bi? And hooking up with the art chick who made a play for you? Holy shit."
"Yup. That was my reaction, too. But we had a nice talk and I think we're both going to try to work on things. She does seem a lot more grounded than I've seen her and the Shoshana thing...well, like Kara said, Shoshana didn't know who she was when they started flirting. Just kind of a freaky coincidence."
"What are the damn chances, though?" Chris mused. "I mean, seriously. Art Chick makes a play for you on Saturday then Thursday she makes a play for your sister, in town temporarily from California. Abuelita would say something like los caminos se unen con razón."
Roads meet for a reason. "Or it could just be a freaky coincidence."
Chris grinned at me. "Dr. Rational over here. Are you the same Dr. Rational who told me yesterday she'd been looking up skinwalkers online because one might have stopped by?" She raised her eyebrows at me.
"Yeah, whatever. Nothing wrong with expanding one's research interests." I slumped down in my chair, pretending offense.
"So what's next, Dr. R? Neo-Nazi poltergeists?" Laughter edged Chris's tone and I started to respond when I heard the doorbell ring, a distant little "ping" that worked its way through the kitchen and out the back door.
Chris looked at me. "Expecting anybody?"
I checked my watch. Nearly eight and dusk had already insinuated itself into the residual warmth of the desert air. "No. Might be a neighbor. Sometimes Mrs. Graves next door comes over with extra tomatoes from her garden." I shrugged when the back door opened and Kara's voice, urgent, interrupted from the top of the steps.
"Kase, it's the police."
Chris was on her feet before the words even sank in.
"What--" I started as I got to my feet.
"They came to talk to Sage," Kara said, worry in her eyes.
Chris caught my eye and I knew the same thought was going through our minds. She waited for me to precede her up the back steps and into the house. I went through the kitchen into the living room, where Sage stood near the front door talking to a couple of plainclothes officers, one a short, stocky guy with sandy-colored hair he wore trimmed over his ears and the other a petite woman with long black hair pulled back from her face. He was dressed casually, in khakis and a polo shirt while she wore a black business suit. She carried a briefcase in one hand and a legal pad in the other and for a moment, she reminded me of Melissa.
I crossed the floor, my thoughts going a million miles an hour. Chris was right on my heels. Sage returned my gaze. I read relief and tension in her eyes.
"Hi," I started, positioning myself on Sage's left. "I'm K.C. Fontero, Sage's partner." If that revelation freaked them out, they hid it well.
"Chris Gutierrez, APD." Chris's voice, low and professional. Both newcomers shifted their attention to her, measuring. The man's expression remained cop-stoic but the woman seemed to warm up a bit. She picked up the introductions.
"Maria Simmons, Farmington Police. This is Jim Martin, my colleague with the FBI."
We all murmured "good to meet you's" before Martin cleared his throat.
"We're very sorry to bother you like this at home," he said in a surprisingly deep voice, "but we have some bad news for Ms. Crandall." He glanced at her, as if checking to make sure it was okay to break the news in front of all these other people.
"It's okay." Sage met his gaze. "We're all pretty much family here."
I felt Kara's presence behind me, to my left. I was glad for it.
Martin continued, unfazed. "We're sorry to report that the Albuquerque Medical Examiner has positively identified a body found last week near Shiprock as that of William C. Crandall. Public records indicate that you and a brother are next-of-kin of Mr. Crandall." He stopped then and I took Sage's hand. Holy fuck. Then again, why was I surprised? This whole week was a Dali painting. Bodies on the Rez. Navajo witches. Letters from dead men.
"What happened to him?" She sounded tired.
"We're still trying to determine that," Simmons interjected.
"Where was he found?"
A question we knew the answer to, but you always hold out hope that your instincts are wrong. Or maybe Sage was fishing, trying to see how much they'd tell her.
"The Navajo Reservation," Simmons answered, crisp and detached. "These are suspicious circumstances and we're investigating his death, which is why Agent Martin is assisting. I'm not sure you're aware of jurisdiction on Indian land, but given the manner in which Mr. Crandall died, we are working with the FBI. Your father was reported missing last Monday by--" she looked at the legal pad. "Tonya Daniels."
Sage chewed her lower lip for a moment. I squeezed her hand, my thoughts bouncing from the reservation to Farmington to oil and gas fields back to the reservation.
"Ms. Crandall," Simmons started.
"Sage," she responded. "I'm not sure what to say. I haven't spoken to my father in over ten years. We weren't close."
Simmons shifted, perhaps uncomfortable. After all, here she was, probably braced for a wild-eyed grief session and instead, she got this response. She seemed to be rethinking her approach.
"My brother wasn't close to him, either," Sage said, sounding steadier. "And I'm not sure what we're going to do about this."
"You're sure he didn't try to contact you?" Martin asked in a way that said he knew something.
"Not me. But my father did send a letter recently to my brother."
Both detectives went into investigation mode. Chris was better at presenting herself in such a way that she always sounded casual, like she was just talking with you. As a result, she extracted lots of information. These two looked like eager puppies, though I was gravitating more toward Simmons than Martin.
"As I said--" Sage directed her comment at Martin, in a "don't try your bullshit interrogation technique with me" tone. "We hadn't heard from him in over ten years. In the letter, which my brother received on Saturday, my father expressed concerns about his place of employment, Ridge Star Drilling." She pulled her hand out of mine and rubbed her palms together, thinking.
Simmons set her briefcase on the floor and took a pen out of her blazer pocket. She started writing on the legal pad. "What kind of concerns?"
Sage waited a beat before continuing. "He was afraid that something would happen to him. He didn't say specifically that he was afraid he might be killed, but he did say that he was thinking about reporting some alleged safety violations on Ridge Star's part and that it might cause some problems."
"Where is this letter?" Simmons was writing and she didn't look up.
"In Montana, with my brother. He's making a copy to send to me."
"They'll need the original," Chris interjected. "Let River know and tell him to put it and the envelope in a plastic Ziploc to preserve any fingerprints or other trace evidence and protect it."
Martin shot Chris a glance that was both measured and territorial.
Sage and Chris ignored him. "Tonya Daniels contacted River this past Sunday," Sage continued. "She said she found the phone number of River's employer in my father's things."
"Why did she contact him?" Simmons looked up, pen hovering over the paper.
"She wanted to know if my father had been in touch. She said that he didn't come home from work the Saturday before she reported him missing."
Simmons nodded as she wrote. They'd probably already talked with Tonya. I tried to catch Chris's eye but she was in professional mode and stood watching the proceedings, arms folded over her chest. Dayna stood to her left, thumbs hooked in her belt loops. She appeared relaxed but I knew she wasn't missing anything. I breathed a little easier, glad they were here. Kara stood to my left. She glanced at me and flashed a little smile of support. I smiled back.
"We'll need to speak with your brother," Simmons said, almost apologetic. I decided I liked her approach much bet
ter than Martin's.
Sage nodded.
"Excuse me," Dayna interrupted. Martin and Simmons turned to appraise her. "If I may--would it be possible for Ms. Crandall and her brother to have a few days to discuss this matter? Given the extenuating circumstances surrounding their relationship with their father, it's unreasonable to expect them to claim his body. At least at this juncture."
The expression on Martin's face hardened a bit at Dayna's lawyer tone, but Simmons appeared more amenable. She responded, "I'll let the Medical Examiner know that you're in the process of making a decision."
"I'd appreciate that," Sage said. "Thank you."
"This is an ongoing investigation," Simmons continued. "We'll be conducting interviews and trying to reconstruct what happened to your father. We will be coordinating with federal law enforcement-- Diné land, after all--and tribal officials as necessary. I can't promise you we'll have this solved tomorrow."
"I understand," Sage said. "I'm sure we'll be in touch regardless."
We stood there, looking at each other, me thinking that Simmons was Indian because she'd used the specific term Diné rather than just "Indian," which so many non-Indian people used. Or maybe she was just super culturally sensitive. Farmington needed people like that, what with its history of tension and violence between whites and Indians.
Martin cleared his throat. "We're sorry to bring you this news, Ms. Crandall." He glanced over at Simmons.
"We'll be in touch," she said as she handed Sage a business card before nodding once and turning to open the security door. She walked across the porch and down the front steps toward their car, a big nondescript American something-or-other that they probably rented at the airport. Martin followed and I decided he might have been military once, given the way he carried himself. I was willing to bet money they'd flown Mesa, the commuter airline service in New Mexico and Colorado as soon as they got the ID and next-of-kin listings. Farmington was a good three hours away by car, depending on a variety of factors like weather and traffic. We watched them drive away from the curb, Simmons at the wheel.
I hugged Sage.
"I have to call River," she said, and her tone sounded distant and hollow, like the expanse of space that defined the Navajo Reservation. I released her and she went into our bedroom. Dayna and Kara started cleaning off the table, leaving me and Chris standing by the front door. She motioned me outside onto the porch.
"I wouldn't wait around for Simmons to contact the ME. I'll give you the number before we leave so Sage or River can let them know to hold the body until they decide what to do." Chris put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
"Shit," I muttered. "That bastard. I know Sage won't want to pay to have him cremated or buried or whatever the hell he might have wanted. Like she even knows. But she'll feel guilty about passing that burden to the state. That son-of-a-bitch."
Chris didn't respond. She just let me vent.
"Fuck." I ran a hand through my hair. "All right, so what do we know?" I shifted into research mode, which helped me compartmentalize. "Dead body on Rez turns out to be Sage's dad. Most likely, someone either took him out there and killed him or killed him and dumped the body there. Why on the Rez?"
"Remote," Chris answered. She knew what I was doing and she also knew that right now, I needed to be in this kind of space with her. "Difficult to access. Maybe whoever took him there and killed him or, alternatively, dumped him there, figured it'd be a hell of a long time before anybody found him."
I fiddled with the bottom of my T-shirt. "Yeah. But two things went wrong with that plan. One, Bill sent a letter and two, someone found his body sooner than his killer anticipated."
"We're not sure it's murder."
I glanced over at Chris, outlined in the light that emanated through the front security door. "True. We aren't. But circumstantially, that's what the scenario seems to suggest. No car, no wallet. That's a long-ass walk from Farmington. Plus, he suspected that something he knew and something he was thinking about revealing put him in danger."
"The key word here is 'circumstantial'," Chris pointed out. "Clearly, where he was found and the condition of his body--if in fact there is blunt force trauma involved--are suspicious. But you know the drill, esa. The evidence is suggesting that, but it's not definitive. Not yet." She slid her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, watching me. I saw worry in her eyes.
I sighed. "Thanks."
She moved toward me and wrapped me in a hug. "Kase, we've known each other a long time. I have so much respect for your intellect and how you go about finding information. But as your friend now--you've got to let this go for a while. Sage needs you to be a partner, not a consultant. This might bring some shit up for her--you said so yourself. Stay on point with her."
I heard the unspoken "don't let what happen with Melissa happen here, too." I exhaled, forcing myself to relax against her, knowing she was right. "Okay. But I don't know how to negotiate the Medical Investigator's office or stuff like that from this position so I might need some help."
"You know I've got your back through this," Chris said against my hair and the years between us spread through my torso with a slow, comfortable warmth. "Somos familia. And that will never change."
I thought about how we'd met, over a decade ago. "I am so glad I went to that party that night." I released my hold on her and poked her in the stomach.
"Same here." She grinned. "And wasn't it you who told me to stop with the counseling and just try out for the police academy?"
"Well, geez, Detective I-hate-this-counseling-shit. You weren't exactly happy doing the psychology thing. You needed a kick in the ass."
"I distinctly recall it was a six-pack of beer that did it," she teased.
"Details." I shrugged. "Beer. Ass. Whatever."
Chris chuckled. "It works both ways. You realize that if I think you're straying into research land too much and not running the right plays with Sage, I'm going to tell you."
"You're such a jock," I muttered.
"Oh, like you didn't play high school sports." She jabbed me in the ribs and I poked her in the stomach again. We both started laughing.
"You okay?" she asked after a bit.
"Yeah." We both knew I wasn't, but that for the moment, it would have to do.
"All right." She reached for the door.
"Thanks." I said.
"De nada. I love you, chica. You coming in?"
"In a minute. And I love you right back, Detective Goddess."
Chris squeezed my shoulder before she went inside. She could read my moods better than I could, sometimes, and she knew when I needed a little bit of alone time. Like now. The door clicked as she pulled it closed. I stood at the top of the steps and stared out into the dark, glancing toward the bush where I thought I'd seen movement a few nights before. A car drove past, blocking my view momentarily.
I heard Dayna and Kara talking and Chris responded to a joke that made Kara laugh and I thought about family. Chris and I were lucky in that our families of origin were supportive, for the most part, of each of us and the paths our lives had taken. The dynamics of Sage's family were very different than mine, because of Bill's alcoholism. I knew a little something about addiction and how it poisoned friends and family because Melissa's younger sister Megan had battled it from a young age. Their father, too, was an alcoholic though he'd replaced booze with Jesus. Melissa still attended Al-Anon meetings and she went to therapy regularly, sometimes with Megan when the latter was in town from school in Oregon, where she'd moved after the neo-Nazi fiasco. Both of them worked hard on undoing years of damage and I admired them for it. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts and looked up at the sky, seeing a few stars even with Albuquerque's light pollution.
Sage had her own way of dealing with things. She'd tried therapy off and on but hadn't connected with any of the counselors on a level she needed. She had mentioned a few months ago that she was thinking about trying again because she felt that some dark
things weren't moving through. I hoped that day came sooner rather than later.
For his part, River was very protective of his sister, and much more engaged with her than their mom, who had become more a friend than a relative through the years. Sage told me stories sometimes about their lives in northern Wyoming, and how she hated when her dad came home from the rigs, tired and angry and usually half-drunk. Better he was completely drunk, she'd say, and passed out in his truck out front after a bender, because then he'd leave the family alone.
Sage stood up to his bullying when he tried pushing River and Janet around, which she believed kept her safe in the bedroom she shared with her brother. And when River hit his puberty growth spurt, he assumed the protector role, using his increasing physical size and strength as a buffer between Bill's drunken rages and the women in his household. River never said anything to Janet about his resentment, but Sage knew he sometimes blamed their mother for allowing this big, messed-up man into their house, into their lives, and into the widening cracks in the family.
But she also knew that Janet was socking money away, hiding it somewhere, skimming it off her father's paycheck, stealing it from his pockets when he sprawled, passed out, on the beaten-down couch in their hardscrabble cabin. And she knew that Janet was arranging a place for the three of them to live in town, that she was looking for a job. She'd finally told a few people what was going on, including a local rancher lawyer, who took pity on this ragtag band of pioneers and ended up helping them for free.
Sage told River these things when she turned fifteen, she said to me one night a couple months after we first met. And she said it was another year before Janet had everything in place and when Bill came home one spring day from a three-month stint working a rig outside Billings, Janet met him at the door with his hunting rifle. She told him she was done and she didn't care what he did with his sorry-ass cabin, but she was taking what she wanted, taking the kids, and filing for divorce. If he knew what was good for him, he'd sign all the papers and he wouldn't fight for custody. Sage and River watched these proceedings from behind her. It had come to that, and Sage remembered feeling numb but lighter, somehow. But she also said that sometimes, the past has a funny way of catching up with you.
The Ties That Bind Page 10