Nicky shook her head, careful to keep her face neutral. She couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes, so she focused on the new conservation officer talking to Ryan.
The man’s dark brown hair was cropped short, with threads of gray. White or Hispanic. Maybe mid- to late thirties in age. While Ryan was lean, this guy was bulky, with muscular shoulders and arms. His stance was erect, shoulders back, head up. Definitely ex-military. It wasn’t unusual for the different tribes to hire ex- or retired military, because it didn’t take much training to get them up to speed for police or Conservation. They were the only two organizations on the pueblo who made arrests and carried sidearms.
It also didn’t take much training to get ex-military up to speed in the federal agencies. DEA, Homeland. FBI.
Maybe he sensed her stare, because he stiffened, before his shoulders relaxed. Coffee cup in one hand, he hooked the other thumb in his belt and stared around the room, even as he responded with a smile to something Ryan said.
Ryan sent her a swift glance and half grin, and gestured for her to come over.
“Come on.” Nicky nodded back at Ryan. “Let’s go meet the new guy.”
“Ryan can’t stop talking about him. They really hit it off. It’s ‘Martin this’ and ‘Martin that.’ Major bromance.” Savannah grimaced. “Skeezy PJ is with them. I’ll stay and get a seat.”
“Okay. Catch you after the meeting.” Nicky dropped her empty cup in a wastebasket and edged toward Ryan and the new hire. She met his gaze, glad she was still some distance away so he couldn’t see her jolt of surprise.
Light eyes. Sky-blue in a tanned face. For some reason, she’d expected brown. His smile gone, he studied her from head to toe, his expression flat and assessing. She bristled inside, picking up hostility before she casually broke off eye contact.
Her gaze flicked over the rest of the group. Most of them watched her, some called out greetings. PJ, the little scumbag, undressed her with his eyes, and Valentine, who stood behind Ryan, completely ignored her.
Coffee in hand, Ryan gave her a one-armed hug. “Hey, Nicky. Savannah didn’t want to come?”
She shook her head and squared off for her own cool appraisal of the new conservation officer. She’d guessed right. Hispanic. About thirty-five, and good-looking, although his nose was slightly too large and his lips a little thin.
The Feds were so obvious.
“I don’t think you two have been introduced,” Ryan said, a note of underlying humor in his voice.
So, he suspected, too.
She held out her hand. Martin’s grasp was warm and strong. Her muscles tightened and her whole body took notice of the man in front of her. The air suddenly felt charged.
“Sergeant Matthews is on the police force, but she’s also a special agent with the BIA. She’s coordinating security for the festival weekend, and will be our supervisor for Friday night,” Ryan said.
Thank God Ryan filled in the conversation gap, because she wasn’t sure she could speak just yet. She forced a smile and released his hand, before flexing her tingling fingers. He smiled back, but his eyes were narrowed, his face stiff.
“Sergeant Matthews. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he began. Her lips twisted and he continued hurriedly, “Nothing bad. Really. Only admiration.”
She ignored Valentine’s snort.
How much did he really know about her? How deep was her file at the FBI? If he really was an agent.
Nicky finally unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name…?” Her voice sounded husky to her ears.
He blinked rapidly and fidgeted with his coffee cup, like he was having trouble processing what she’d said. Well, son of a gun. She suppressed a smile. He was as shaken by their introduction as she was. Some of the tension drained out of her.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m the newest hire for the Conservation Department. Been here only a couple of weeks. Out of Arizona. Yup.”
Nicky bit her lip to stop a smile. He was rambling.
“Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Name’s Martin. Frank Martin. I look forward to working with you, Sergeant Matthews.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nicky groaned softly and relaxed into a cushioned chair in Savannah’s den. She twisted the top off a bottle of cold water, took a drink, and cradled it against her shirt. Feast Day meeting had run long—like it did every year. A plate sat on a tray table next to her, crumbs the only remains of the sandwiches and chips she and Savannah had eaten a few minutes earlier. It was dark outside, and the patio door hung open. Crickets chirped and cars drove by. A dog barked in the distance. Pueblo night music.
Savannah sat and typed her meeting notes into an email for her boss. She’d periodically fired questions at Nicky. “How many people would you say showed up? Was anyone prominent missing tonight?”
But Savannah had been silent for the last ten minutes.
The warm air wafting through the screen door made her sleepy, and Nicky let her eyelids drop. She drifted, sifting through her conversation with Julie Knuteson at OMI, with Dax in Santa Fe, and her introduction to Frank Martin.
Words and impressions became like smoke, ephemeral, swirling around and around together. They twisted into a tightly woven rope that snaked around her neck. It changed to metal, cold against her skin. Something heavy tugged at the chain. A presence stood before her, its hand pressed into the skin of her chest, icy as death. It steadily warmed until it burned with the intensity of a thousand red-hot knives. The pain was intense, but she had to bear it, had to wait until the dream gave her an answer. Suddenly heat flashed like the sharp steel of a blade, and plunged into her chest toward her beating heart.
Nicky gasped and her eyes popped open.
“I’m glad you’re still wearing the Spirit’s Heart,” Ryan said. He sat on the sofa, his empty plate stacked on top of hers.
The pendant was clenched in her hand. She opened her fingers and studied the rays of coral and the single turquoise stone. The empty spoke was black and hollow.
“You were dreaming.”
“Hmm.” She tucked the pendant inside the V of her shirt and set her bottle of water on the side table. He’d turned off the lamp, so the only light was from the kitchen. Nicky glanced at Savannah. She still sat at the bar, her back to them, scrolling the screen of her computer, only to stop periodically and make a notation on her yellow pad.
Nicky yawned and ran her hand over her hair, caught her ponytail and gave it a flip.
“So, is Frank Martin FBI?”
“Probably. Ted said they were in the army together. Afghanistan. When the job came up, he gave him a call.” Ted being Ted Brighton, the Conservation Department’s captain.
“Convenient.”
“He’s actually qualified. Went through Land Management Police Training at Glynco, and was working at the Tohono O’odham Reservation in Arizona before he transferred. I don’t know dates, though.”
“I can pull up his file,” Savannah called back to them.
“If he’s FBI, I wouldn’t trust the information in it.” Nicky grabbed her water and took a drink.
“What’s going on that they need an undercover operation on the rez?” Ryan asked. “I mean, I know they have federal jurisdiction on a lot of things.”
“Yes,” Nicky agreed. “The Major Crimes Act includes murder, manslaughter, kidnapping, every assault imaginable, arson, burglary, robbery, child abuse.”
“Fire-Sky police do all of that,” Ryan said.
“But the Feds have resources we don’t,” Nicky pointed out.
“We would’ve heard about any of those crimes. You know how gossip and rumor spreads on the pueblo,” Savannah added, hunched over the computer.
“Since everyone in the FBI does a rotation through Indian Country, I’m sure they’ve all been briefed about how fast information travels here. That’s probably a big reason they’re so paranoid and secretive about everything. And a pain in the ass to work with.” Nicky sighed.
“It’s just that they don’t know the territory, don’t know the culture. They come to the rez, order people around—”
“Then have to ask directions to get back onto the freeway when they leave.” Savannah scoffed.
“I’m cross-commissioned for Indian Country and federal. So are a lot of other cops on the pueblo. They should do us the courtesy—”
“Surely your captain or chief have been briefed,” Ryan interrupted.
Nicky shrugged. She wanted to tell them Dax’s information, but if what he said was true, it could mess up the entire operation, potentially put more people in danger. Until she had more intel, she’d keep quiet.
Time to change the subject.
“Julie Knuteson from OMI called me back.”
Savannah swiveled around. “And?”
“She’s going to look into the Sandra Deering file.”
“And?” Ryan asked softly.
Nicky pressed her lips together. “The doctor who did Sandra’s autopsy has taken an unauthorized leave of absence. He left a message saying he was going to some meeting in Europe, but no one knows where he is.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, Nicky,” Savannah said. “Are you sure you want to do this? If Captain Richards finds out, the consequences—”
“I need to know.”
Savannah turned away. “You and your stupid puzzles.” She scrolled through her emails. “Fine. If you get fired, you can always get a job at McDonald’s or Blake’s. I hear managers make pretty good money. Oh, shit.” She clamped a hand over her mouth.
“What?” Nicky and Ryan said at the same time.
“I just got an updated email of the notables attending the fiesta. Dax Stone, chief of the New Mexico State Police, is now on the list. And he’s going to be onstage during distribution. Along with the tribal governor and the governor of the state!”
Nicky hurried over and scanned the list. “At least Janet’s not coming. He said she was with her mother back East.”
“That’s probably why he’ll be at Feast Day. Because she’s not here and you are.”
Nicky exhaled a shaky breath. She didn’t want to be seen with Dax, much less speak to him.
Ryan joined them. “What’s going on?”
Before Nicky could explain, Savannah said, “Dax hit on her the other night. Wants her back on the sleazy side. Said the sex was the best he’d ever had.”
Ryan grinned as Nicky’s neck and face heated.
“Wow. Hidden talents.” He laughed.
“Shut up, both of you.”
“What’ll you do if he tries to talk to you?” Savannah asked. “It will definitely stir up old rumors and gossip.”
“That’s gonna happen even if he doesn’t speak to you,” Ryan observed. “Just his presence is going to be a problem.”
“Yeah. Captain Richards and his crew already think you slept your way to the top. Those misogynistic idiots won’t ever believe a woman can climb to your rank and position so quickly without help, especially since you left so many of them in your dust.” Savannah tucked her arm around Nicky’s waist and gave her a hug. “But it really is best if you avoid Dax Stone.”
Nicky swallowed. “I know.”
Ryan tipped his head to one side. “Who are you partnered with on Friday?”
“Since I’m supervising, I was going to float. Are you volunteering as guard dog?” It wouldn’t be too difficult to shift the personnel roster around.
“Sure. He’ll be less likely to approach you if you’re paired with a big scary guy.” His eyes twinkled.
“Big scary guy, huh? To protect little ol’ me from another big scary guy? I don’t know whether to shoot you or kiss you.”
“I think it’s a good idea, Nicky,” Savannah interjected. “Another man between the two of you—as sexist as it sounds—may make Dax think twice about propositioning you again.”
“Wait!” Nicky raised her eyebrows. “How about I kill two birds with one—heh, heh—Stone.”
Savannah groaned. “That pun makes no sense, you know.”
“Yes, it does. It was brilliant,” Nicky stated firmly. “I can keep Dax at arm’s length, and I can get to know a new employee on the reservation. Evaluate him, interrogate him, look for cracks in his probable FBI armor.” She smiled, more excited than she should be.
Ryan and Savannah exchanged a glance.
“I’ll assign our new Conservation agent Frank Martin as my partner for Feast Day. That will definitely make for an interesting weekend.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Because the Catholic Church officially decreed three saints were martyred on a single day, the Feast of Saint Denise, Andrew, and Paul—DAP Day—was celebrated May 15 for over two hundred years on the Fire-Sky Reservation. But about twenty years ago, the pueblo changed the fiesta to the last weekend of the month for their Feast Day, or bá-sku. Since the school year for most districts in the state ended the week before, and it coincided with a federal holiday, the pueblo wanted to maximize the attendance of New Mexico families before they scattered for summer vacations. The change caused a major rift between the more religious, traditional members of the tribe, and those who saw the decision as both logical and economically more feasible.
“In the end,” Nicky said, “money won out.”
“Well. I hate to say this … but doesn’t money always win out?” Frank Martin asked her as they patrolled through the crowded streets surrounding Salida’s plaza.
People lined up at booths to grab dinner as the sun sank in the west. Nicky smelled fry bread and lamb, mixed with the sweet savory scent of kettle corn and funnel cakes. Drums and chants sounded from the distant plaza, part of a series of entertainment for the tourists and Natives.
Nicky glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His black polo stretched tightly over muscular arms, body armor making his chest even broader. A woven leather Sam Browne without the suicide strap wrapped across a flat stomach, his sidearm slotted in a holster on his right. He’d clipped his radio and flashlight within easy reach, as well as a pouch for extra magazines. An ornate silver and gold badge, its colorful Conservation Department medallion fixed in the middle, sat prominently on his belt. His boots were brown leather, laced up over his ankles. Very military, very masculine. He’d hung his sunglasses in the neck of his shirt.
Frank leaned down to pick up an empty plastic soda bottle and dropped it into a recycle container.
“Does the money always win out?” Nicky repeated slowly. “Very cynical, Agent Martin.” She resumed her scan of the crowds. The embroidered Fire-Sky logo over her left breast and the POLICE in large white letters across her back were the only relief from the head-to-toe black she wore except for her gold shield clipped to her duty belt. “Considering the crowds will only get bigger this weekend because of the fiesta’s date change, I would have to say yes in this situation. But I like to think other things are more important than money.” She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, dear. I may have to eat my words. Today is per capita distribution.”
He laughed, and a smile tugged at her lips. She was enjoying herself.
“This is a nice break from work. It seems all PJ and I do is remove rattlesnakes from every conceivable nook and cranny in the pueblo. We’ve been getting two or three calls a day at the department since it’s warmed up.”
Nicky pulled her face into a grimace and shuddered. “Better you than me. I thought Animal Control did that.”
“They kill them. We catch-and-release them alive, far, far away from people.”
They walked around a group of laughing teens sharing a funnel cake.
“So, is this your first fiesta? Or did you attend Feast Days at O’odham?”
A veil dropped over his eyes. Although he was still smiling, it seemed forced. She wondered if she’d struck some kind of nerve. Or if he’d ever actually worked at Tohono O’odham at all. Just part of his cover.
“Feast Days were different there. I was never assigned to patrol.”
Hmm. End
of subject.
They walked in silence until they neared a large white tent. A long line of people and families, chattering excitedly, snaked inside. The enticing smell of grilling burgers wafted on the breeze.
She unclipped her phone from her belt. It was almost six P.M.
“Speaking of eating my words, are you hungry?” DAP Day officially opened at one P.M. on Friday, so they’d started patrol after lunch.
“I guess.”
She sighed dramatically. “Well, if you only guess, you aren’t hungry enough for a secret recipe, Fire-Sky double-green-chile cheeseburger with special sauce and seasoned, fresh-cut steak fries.” Nicky leaned in to him and caught a whiff of woodsy aftershave. She took another subtle sniff. He smelled good. “I’ve heard the secret is ten percent buffalo meat mixed into the beef,” she stage-whispered. “And I’ve also heard the Laguna Burger is better, but that’s strictly between you and me. Saying it out loud would be a firing offense.”
He smiled slowly. This time it reached his eyes.
“Is that what the line is for?” He indicated the growing throng of people.
“It is. But there’s a special VIP entrance around back that will take us straight to the source.” Nicky wiggled her eyebrows. “Are you game? ’Cause I’m buying.”
“All right. I have to confess my stomach’s been growling for over an hour. A few minutes ago, I had to restrain myself from grabbing some little kid’s Frito pie,” he admitted.
Nicky chuckled and pulled her radio from her belt to report they’d be at dinner for the next thirty minutes.
“Confession’s good for the soul, Frank,” she said lightly, but her steady gaze caught and held his.
Not breaking eye contact, he said, “I’ll remember that if I ever need absolution, Sergeant Matthews.”
“Nicky. Call me Nicky.”
“All right.” He smiled. “Nicky.”
She led him around to the back of the tent. Within minutes they clutched bowed paper plates heaped with burgers and fries. They shouldered their way through the crowded tent to seats. Frank took a bite of his burger and moaned.
Hearts of the Missing Page 11