Lori Armstrong - Merciless

Although this floor was identical to the floors above it, the layout was completely different. The main section was similar to the reference area at a library: rows and rows of periodicals, a gigantic desk covered with computer equipment and ringed with filing cabinets of all shapes, sizes, and colors. I didn’t get a chance to peer down the hallway, as the man behind the desk was headed toward me.

He offered his hand first. Depending on how traditionally they were raised, some Indian males shook hands with women and some didn’t, so I never assumed. “Special Agent Gunderson, what a pleasure to see you again. I’m Sheldon War Bonnet, manager of the archives. I don’t know if you remember me, but I helped you when you filled out the tribal registration form.”

I didn’t remember him. “Nice to see you again, Mr. War Bonnet. The FBI appreciates your cooperation.”

“Please, call me Sheldon.” He gestured to a sitting area I hadn’t noticed. “Coffee?”

I didn’t want to make idle chitchat with this guy, but since I’d be here all week, I smiled. “That would be great.” I picked the overstuffed chair that faced the door-a ridiculous superstition given I was in a locked room. But me ’n’ Wild Bill Hickok had the same phobia about sitting with our backs to the door, and Wild Bill’s ignoring his gut reaction had gotten him killed.

“Cream or sugar?” Sheldon asked.

“Black is fine.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He handed me the coffee and eased into the chair opposite mine. “I didn’t get a chance to mention the one time you were in here that I knew your father. He was good for the county. A great sheriff.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled into my coffee.

“Pity you lost the election.”

“The better man won, that’s for sure.”

“I suppose only time will tell.”

I covertly studied Sheldon as I sipped my coffee. He appeared to be in his late fifties. A full-blooded Indian. His thick glasses gave off a wicked reflection in the fluorescent lighting and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I assumed they were brown. He wore a high-necked white T-shirt under a loose-fitting gray caftan with a split neckline. His khaki pants bagged everywhere, and his feet were behind the ottoman, so I couldn’t determine whether he wore beat-up Birkenstocks or dusty hikers. He definitely held that old-hippie vibe-long black hair pulled into a ponytail, soft-spoken voice, his gentle demeanor that put us on even footing from the start.

“So what brings the FBI here?”

I had to tread lightly. During training we learned to share the least information about a case and how to redirect. And, if necessary… to lie. But I tried to stay within a realm of truth. “What I’m looking for would fall under classified information. But since I’m here as sort of a managerial punishment, the truth is I’m not sure where to start.”

His eyes widened beneath his glasses. “Managerial punishment?”

“Off the record? Being the newbie agent in the office, I made the… ah, mistake of spouting off a theory to the big boss, and now I’ve been relegated to research said theory.”

“That sucks. For you.” He smiled. “Of course, I’m the type who prefers doing research to anything else. I assume you have parameters, so I can at least direct you to the correct archive?”

“That would be great. The cases I’ve been sent to research deal with a broad spectrum of fraud and sexual violation involving minors.”

“Still a pretty broad definition.” Sheldon frowned at his coffee. “How far back?”

“Does that make a difference in which area I’ll start in or end up in?”

“No, just trying to be helpful. I assumed you’d begin with the police case files.”

I drained my coffee. “Between us? This is busywork. So I don’t care where I start. Especially if you, as the expert, believe I’ll have better luck in a different area.”

Sheldon preened a bit at the word expert. “Since I don’t know specifics on what you’re looking for, I suggest sticking to the police case files.” He set his mug on the coffee table and unclipped a key ring from his belt loop. “I’ll get you started in this room.”

Looking at the precisely organized boxes of case files, it was obvious that the tribal PD could take organizational notes from Sheldon.

I’d compiled a list of obituaries I’d found online. Hard not to feel overwhelmed. I took down the first box, dated five years previously, and went to work.

Damn depressing that I found over a dozen instances of unexplained deaths of young women, including suspicious car accidents, assumed domestic violence, and drug overdoses. But for nearly every single one of the cases, information from the tribal police had been scant, at best, so I kept looking for more.

A loud rap on the door frame startled me, and I glanced up.

Sheldon said, “You have an incredible attention span. You haven’t moved for three hours.”

“Really?” I switched my head from side to side to alleviate the stiffness in my neck. “I attribute that more to stubbornness than anything else.”

“I usually close up at lunchtime for an hour.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose you could let me stay in here?”

“Afraid not. Tribal council rules prohibit anyone besides me being left unattended in the archives.” He smiled. “And I’m betting the break will do you good anyway.”

I shut my notebook and shoved it in my purse. I gestured to the files. “It’s okay if I leave these out? Since I’m coming right back?”

“Sure.”

Once we were out in the entryway, he punched the button for the elevator, and I booked it up the stairs.

I thought about snagging a microwave sandwich at the grocery store, but fresh air would help clear the sad facts from my mind. I drove a couple miles out of town to the casino. I’d heard the tribal cops talking about the lunch specials, and now I had an hour to kill.

I’d been in this casino once before and had ended up tangling with a pickpocket. Glad to see they’d improved security measures since my last visit.

The same kid still worked at the front of the restaurant at the host stand. He grinned. “Hey! I remember you. You’re with the FBI.”

“I remember you. You said the tribal president was your uncle. But I didn’t catch your name.”

He held out his hand. “Hadley DeYoung.”

I shook it. “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson.”

“Table for one, Agent Gunderson?”

“Yes.”

“This way.”

After I’d ordered an Indian taco salad made with ground buffalo, I glanced around the space. The decor was typically Native American themed. The acoustics were such that I could still hear the ding ding of electronic gambling machines even in this enclosed area. There weren’t too many people eating lunch. I’d bet with the nightly steak and crab special the restaurant did the bulk of their business at dinnertime.

Hadley stopped at the end of the table. “You out catching bad guys?”

“Nope. Just on my lunch break.” I leaned back in the booth. “So Hadley, how are you related to tribal president Elk Thunder?”

“My mom was his sister.”

“Ah. You weren’t related to Arlette Shooting Star?”

“Nope.”

“Did you know her?”

He looked down at his hands. “Not really. She hadn’t been here very long.”

“You didn’t see Arlette on holidays or at family get-togethers?”

“What family get-togethers?” he scoffed. “My uncle doesn’t have nothin’ to do with our family anymore. It’s all about Triscell’s family. Since they’ve got money and stuff.” He smirked. “But I sure like telling people he’s my uncle. Makes ’em look at me differently. Know what I mean?”