She jammed another handful of the fake flora into the display’s painted foam base, and then started to cry. Her tears came freely. She looked around. A young couple with a little girl of maybe five paused on their way through the display room to stare at her.
“Why are you crying?” the little girl asked.
Her mother quickly hushed her.
Holding up the plants, Sierra said, “They’re the wrong period.”
The mother pushed the little girl forward, not giving her time to ask another question.
Sierra threw the plastic flora back into a cardboard box, stood, and ran to the restroom.
She splashed water on her face and took several deep breaths. She checked under the stalls. No feet.
She turned back and stared at herself in the mirror.
“It’s been so long, Faye. I don’t know if I can go through it again.”
She walked into one of the empty stalls, sat down, and wept.
SEPTEMBER 25
SATURDAY, 2:22 P.M.
JONES RANCH ROAD, CHI CHIL TAH (NAVAJO NATION), NEW MEXICO
After lunch, Mark gathered them all by the Lincoln. He passed out ground-searching metal detectors, sifter trays, and shovels. After a quick how-to on using a detector, he assigned a plot in the triangle to each of them, passed out small marking flags, and set them to work. If a metal object was detected underground, they would plant a flag on the spot. After they searched the entire triangle, they would go back and dig up the hits.
Forty-five minutes and two planted flags later, Joe finished searching his plot. So did the others. They traded the detectors for handheld versions and took up trowels and plastic sifting trays.
Joe went to his first flag and jammed the trowel deep into the clay soil. He removed a clump, placed it on his sifting tray, and ran the handheld metal detector over it. The detector beeped. He shook the tray, letting the loose dirt fall through the screen. Several rocks and a crushed green shotgun shell remained. Probably not related to the case, but it had to be collected.
“Shotgun shell.”
Mark came over, carrying his backpack. He withdrew a camera, a GPS unit, a brown paper bag, and a black marker. Joe took the bag and marker and wrote out the date, time, location, description, and his name.
Mark photographed the shell. Then Joe dropped it in the bag. Mark pulled out a small stapler to seal it. They would tape it later.
That routine continued for the next twenty minutes, until Andi called, “I think I found it!”
Joe and Mark rushed over. On Andi’s tray lay a black-colored chunk of metal: a deformed lead slug.
“Looks like a forty-five.” Mark turned to look at Joe. “Could be your door slug. What do you think?”
“Luck of the Irish, Andi. I owe you a beer.”
“One? You’re insulting my ancestors.”
They finished their treasure hunt a half hour later and compared notes on their finds: one lead slug, one shotgun shell, the rusty remains of a rifle trigger and trigger guard, one penny, fourteen bottle caps (mostly found near the vehicle), four pull-tabs (also mostly found near the vehicle), six nuts, two bolts, a three-inch piece of car trim, and one D battery. They bagged and tagged only the slug, shotgun shell, and trigger and guard. Mark pocketed the penny, saying it would be littering if they left it. He didn’t seem to care about the other junk, though.
The tow truck arrived at four and hauled the vehicle back to the FBI’s holding facility in Albuquerque. They cleared the site at five, which included taking exit photos of the area. Joe planned to catch a late dinner at Mickey’s and then grab a nice long shower. Monday, he would brief Dale.
When he was on I-40, he called Melissa. It would be close to 7:30 New York time. After his stunt in the woods with the old man, he wanted to hear her voice. She answered on the third ring. In that instant, the tensions of the day—the tensions of the case—fell away.
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY, 8:03 A.M.
PARKING GARAGE, HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The back door to the Lincoln opened, but Kendall Holmes did not move. His bodyguard waited. In a way, the problem he was dealing with at that moment was partly of his bodyguard’s making. But only partly. Edgerton was the real problem. Always had been.
Holmes finished typing out an e-mail to Chris Staples on his phone. He would have to meet with Grace Edgerton. A face-to-face would be good. He could promise her quiet support while protecting his public image. A win-win. Then if she survived, he could count on her later. After all, he would have his own campaign to worry about in two months. The big one. He was already getting calls from the party asking him what the fallout would be from the Edgerton debacle. He had to control it. Minimize collateral damage. If not, the party would stop him from running in the primary.
“Were you able to reach out to your friend?” he said to his bodyguard, whose dark, chiseled features reminded Kendall of the rocky formations found throughout the Navajo Nation.
“He will want a favor later.”
“Of course.”
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY, 9:18 A.M.
BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
“Why didn’t you call me Saturday?” Dale asked.
“I didn’t want to bother you on the weekend,” Joe said, lying.
“Goddamn it. Who knows about it?”
“Andi, two of her agents, and Bluehorse. Oh, and he briefed his chief.”
“His chief knew before I did?” A vein stood out along Dale’s temple.
Joe looked down to hide a smirk. One of Dale’s model cars sat in the middle of the desk, a crumpled polishing rag next to it.
“Is that a Studebaker?”
Dale swatted away Joe’s hand when he reached for the car. “Don’t fuck around. If this hits the press before Washington knows about it, my ass becomes a target. And so does yours.”
“Then you’d better make some calls. And while you’re at it, why don’t you give this case to Cordelli.”
“Fine. I thought it was a fugitive case. You’re not up to handling a high-profile murder. Go do your job-search bullshit. I don’t care. Just get out of here.”
On the way to his desk, Ginny called his name.
“Joe, there’s a woman here about Edgerton.”
“Tell Cordelli. It’s his now.”
“He’s out.”
“Who’s on duty?”
“Tenny. He’s out, too.”
Joe sighed.
Ginny, who had been handling the squad’s administrative matters for over twenty-three years, looked at him with her “Can you talk to this person?” eyes, which she always used when a walk-in came to the office and the duty agent wasn’t available. Ginny was like a nanny to the squad, the one who always had a cookie and kind word for everyone. How could he refuse her?
“Who is it?”
“Sierra Hannaway.”
Joe thought for a moment, trying to place the name. Nothing.
“Did she say why she’s here?”
“Her sister, Faye Hannaway.”
The tramp with the movie star name.
Ginny gave him a sly smile. “She’s not wearing a wedding ring.”
“Is everyone trying to set me up?”
“Everyone but you.”
Joe rubbed his brow with his thumb and forefinger. He’d awakened with the usual headache this morning, but it had subsided on the drive in. Now it was returning.
Ginny winked. “Be a gentleman and turn on that Joe Evers charm.”
Joe gave a fake smile.
To the right of Ginny’s desk was the reception window, which provided a view of the waiting room. The woman wore a simple blue dress, the hem dropping below her knees. Conservative. There seemed nothing striking about this woman, except for her shoes: blue with shiny stones covering the toes. For some reason, the shoes seemed to say something about her, hinting at a hidden flair. Then he realized this was the second
time he’d noticed a woman’s shoes. First at Mickey’s and now here. But perhaps footwear wasn’t really what drew his attention.
He stepped into the waiting room. The woman looked up. Runny mascara marred petite, elegant features. She was a few years younger than Joe, but only a few.
“Hello, I’m Joe Evers. How can I help you?”
The woman stood, and he saw her hair, all of it. He had seen it through the window but hadn’t thought anything of it then. But now it was stunning, a shimmering ebony cascading down to the small of her back. The cheap fluorescent lamps in the room could not diminish its iridescent quality. When she moved, her hair glistened like dew running down fine blades of grass. Joe stared, captivated.
“Are you the agent handling the case?”
“Let’s talk in here.” He opened the door leading to the interview room. Devoid of decoration or warmth, the space contained only a desk, a phone, and three chairs. Its purpose was to obtain information from walk-ins, not entertain them.
He positioned one of the chairs for her, then sat behind the desk.
“It’s about my sister.” She brought a tissue to her cheek. “I’m sorry. I thought this was all behind me. It’s been so many years.”
“I understand. Some things are difficult. Take your time.”
She looked up over her tissue, meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”
He offered a smile.
“I’ve been following the news about Congressman Edgerton’s car being found and…”
Joe waited.
“I want to know if you’re going to be like the rest of those so-called investigators who worked on my sister’s case. All they ever did was call her a conspirator and a gold digger.”
Joe put a hand up. “Listen, I—”
“I’m not done. I need to get this out now, or I never will.” She took a deep breath. “I accepted what they said twenty years ago because I was young and didn’t know any better. But now I can’t let you guys explain away her disappearance as though it were some ridiculous Bonnie and Clyde thing.”
“I’m not—” He stopped himself. He was about to say he wasn’t working the case anymore, but he thought that might get her even more upset. But stopping himself didn’t make a difference.
“You’re not what? Not interested?”
“Look, Ms. Hannaway, if you just came here to yell at me—”
“I’m not yelling. I just want someone to finally take her case seriously. My sister didn’t run away. I know something happened to her. I just want closure. Our mother and father died never knowing what happened. Or why it happened. People said she ran off with Edgerton. People talked behind our backs, snickered, called her a tramp and a thief.” She lowered her head. “My father had a small life-insurance policy taken out on us when we were young, only a thousand dollars. He didn’t even put a claim in when my sister went missing, didn’t even think about it. But do you know what they did, the Great American Insurance Company, with their billboards that read ‘Take Comfort with Us’? A year after my sister went missing, they sent us a letter. They said they investigated and couldn’t pay off on the policy because she was wanted in connection with congressional corruption, and it was their opinion she fled the country. No one even asked them to pay off the policy. And no one asked them for their opinion. My mother and father sat in the kitchen and cried over that letter, hugging each other. The rumors and tabloids didn’t bother them half as much as that letter.” She pulled out another tissue to soak up those painful memories.
Joe sat in silence, not sure what to say to comfort this woman, not sure if she even wanted him to try.
“Do you know what it’s like to lose someone?” she asked. “Someone you love and care about. And then when they’re gone, you realize you can’t move on. You’re stuck. Stuck because you can’t get closure. You can’t understand why that person was taken. And you somehow feel responsible. Do you know what that’s like?”
Joe knew. He knew all too well. He looked at the woman in front of him. He wanted to hug her and tell her he understood. Tell her that was exactly how he’d felt ever since Christine died. Instead, he did something he knew he shouldn’t. Maybe something he couldn’t.
“I’ll do my best to find out what happened to your sister.”
Her expression seemed to convey doubt, but she didn’t voice her feelings. Instead, she stood, shook his hand, turned, and walked out without a backward glance.
Joe stayed in the room for another ten minutes, considered their conversation. Then he went back into Dale’s office.
Dale was on the phone, so Joe plopped in the seat in front of his desk and waited. He listened to Dale tell the person on the other end about the bullet holes and that the old man had remembered seeing blood. He gave Joe a look that said, Get the hell out of my face. Joe ignored it. He guessed this was Dale’s third or fourth phone call. On high-profile cases, the big bosses never wanted to wait to read the reports. They always demanded verbal updates. Everyone was afraid to be caught outside the circle of knowledge. After a few minutes, Dale hung up.
“I want the case back.”
Dale said nothing, but his mouth moved a few times, as though he were practicing what he would say, Joe had caught him off guard. “Forget it. Not after that stunt. I’m giving it to Cordelli.”
Joe tasted his own pride as it slipped down his throat. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have kept you out of the loop. It won’t happen again. I’ll keep you updated from here on out.”
“I can’t trust you anymore. I should have known that when I gave it to you. No way. Cordelli gets it.”
“Dale, you were right. I need this. I do. I need it.”
“No.”
Joe had one last card to play.
“I’ll rescind my retirement paperwork.”
That caught Dale’s attention. “You can’t. It’s too late.”
“I called HR.” He hadn’t. “I can. And if you try to fight it, I’ll file an appeal, which could take a good part of a year to settle.”
Dale picked up his desk phone, probably to check with Human Resources.
Joe hurried on: “Or … you can let me run with the Edgerton case. Come three months, whatever happens, I leave. No problems. You don’t even have to attend my retirement party.”
Dale put down the phone. He didn’t say anything for several moments. Then he leaned forward, his words slow, menacing.
“Okay. Run with it. But if you screw with me, I will file those negligence actions against you for the Longman case, retirement or no retirement. You got me?”
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY, 10:10 A.M.
UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
The yellow Post-it note stuck to Professor Lawrence Trudle’s office door read “Larry, Congratulations. Meeting 10:30 conference room. RW.” Professor Trudle peeled the note off the stained wood, crumpled it, and shoved it in his pocket. He unlocked the door, walked in, and went straight to his credenza, on which sat a four-cup electric teakettle. He dropped his bulging ostrich-skin briefcase, which his wife had given him the previous Christmas, to the floor and extracted a gallon jug of springwater from the bottom cabinet of the same credenza. Then he filled the kettle and turned it on. Next, he opened the top right drawer to his desk and reached all the way to the back, behind the selection of Bigelow teas, and pulled out a Folgers coffee single. He unwrapped the string and placed the small coffee bag in his Who’s Your Mummy? coffee mug. Finished with his morning routine, he dropped into his desk chair to await the click of the kettle, a beautiful sound signaling the water had reached a boil and it was time to sin.
Professor Trudle was the only Mormon in the University of New Mexico’s Anthropology Department, so one would have thought he wouldn’t worry about his colleagues catching him drinking coffee, giving into the allure of the black nectar, which meant breaking his vow to abstain from caffeine. But one would have been wrong. Professor Trudle preferred to sin in private.
He removed his glasses and set them down on his desk. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, closed his eyes, leaned back, and waited for the click.
“Knock! Knock!” a voice barked.
Professor Steve Mercado stood at the door, beaming.
“Good morning, Steve.”
“And what a fine morning it is, Professor Trudle. Yes indeedy. A fine morning, made even finer by the good news of a grant. Am I the first to congratulate you?”
Steve walked in and plopped down on one of the chairs used by students during office hours.
“No. You are the second. I got a warm and friendly posty from our esteemed department head with, as I am sure you are aware, a rather surprising announcement of a meeting. I suspect he wants to share the good news with our fellow faculty. I was just contemplating his true motivation when you so crassly interrupted my somber meditation.”
“I apologize, but your somber meditation looked curiously like napping.” Steve withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket. Holding it lightly between his right thumb and forefinger, he tapped it against his left palm.
“Apology accepted. Any idea why Westerberry is having this meeting? And don’t say he wants to celebrate my good news. That’s horse pucky and you know it.”
“Whoa, watch the language. No, I believe it’s to gloat on one of your past misadventures—the Trudle Turkey.”
On the bookcase beside Steve sat Lawrence’s three published books. The second book, Anasazi Lineage to the Aztec, was the smallest of the three, but it had caused him the greatest chagrin in his career.
He planted both elbows on the desk and hung his head in his hands.
“I guess as an archaeologist you can never get away from the past.” Steve grinned. “And with Edgerton all over the news, I guess Westerberry sees an opportunity to poke fun.”
Lawrence rubbed his temples.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s going to mention Edgerton, and you’ll take the bait and say that Edgerton’s disappearance is linked to your stolen artifacts. But you won’t stop there. You’ll say that those artifacts prove your theories and blah, blah, blah.”
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