J. Jance - Day of the Dead

In actual fact, he hadn’t been thinking about it until the words burst unbidden from his mouth. He had known for months that Elias Segundo, the current tribal attorney, was thinking about retiring due to ill health. It wouldn’t have been right to start a job search for his replacement before Elias was ready, but now…

Philip looked at Fat Crack speculatively. “What kind of job?”

Before Gabe Ortiz could answer, a shiny black Saab nosed its way up to the curb and stopped in a passenger-loading zone. Leaving the car with its flashers blinking, an Indian woman wearing a smart red wool suit and matching high heels stepped out. Delia Cachora’s long black hair was pulled back and fastened in a smooth bun at the base of her neck. She had grown into a strikingly attractive woman. What Fat Crack instantly recognized, however, were her wonderfully luminous eyes. Those hadn’t changed.

“What’s going on?” she asked, glancing apprehensively between the two men.

“Guy here wants to offer you a job,” Philip muttered. “I’m going to buy myself a drink.”

Delia was clearly embarrassed by her husband’s behavior. “I’m sorry,” she said, holding out her hand. “Things have been a little rough for Philip lately, but I must apologize, Mr.-”

“Don’t apologize,” Fat Crack said. “My name’s Ortiz, Gabe Ortiz. You might remember me as Fat Crack.”

It took Brian Fellows half an hour to get from the Fast Horse Ranch crime scene investigation to Professor Rice’s foothills address. Brian drove up Pontotoc Road and stopped in front of a low-slung faux-adobe house with bright blue trim. A maroon four-wheel-drive Toyota Tacoma pickup truck with a matching camper shell sat parked on half the driveway in front of a closed two-car garage. Jotting down the license number, Brian called it in to Records. Within a minute Shelley had an answer for him. The Tacoma was registered to Medicos for Mexico. If this was Erik LaGrange’s company vehicle, it might explain why there was no vehicle registered in his own name. It was also possible that Brian would find Erik LaGrange himself inside the house.

As Brian considered his next move, a woman at the house directly across the street came down her long graveled driveway hauling a wheeled garbage container behind her.

Brian got out of his car. At his approach, the woman placed both hands on her hips and regarded him suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

He offered her a glance at his identification wallet. “I’m curious about your neighbors, the ones who live here,” he said, pointing.

“The Rices?” she asked. “Frieda and Ray are out of town right now. They’re in Europe somewhere. They’re not expected back until the beginning of fall semester.”

“That’s their truck, then?” Brian asked, pointing.

“Oh, no,” the woman responded. “That belongs to their house-sitter. I don’t know him except to see him on the street, but he seems like a very nice young man. Clean-cut. Quiet. Never causes any trouble. He seems to spend quite a bit of time with his mother. That’s not something you see too often with most young people.”

Brian paused long enough to write himself a note: “Check out LaGrange’s mother.”

When he looked back up, the woman was frowning. “There’s nothing wrong, is there? I mean, he’s not in any trouble or hurt or anything, is he?”

“No, ma’am,” Brian said politely. “No trouble so far as we know. Just making a few routine inquiries. Thanks so much for your help.”

Leaving his Crown Vic parked where it was, Detective Fellows walked up to the driveway, toward the Rices’ front door. As he ambled past the parked pickup, Brian caught sight of a dark red smudge on the back bumper. He had been in homicide long enough to recognize something that looked suspiciously like blood. On the shady side of the car he paused and felt the tires. Enough heat lingered in the rubber for Brian to be reasonably sure the truck had been driven sometime during the day.

Getting warmer, Brian thought to himself. And not just the tires, either.

He checked to make sure his weapon was well within easy reach, then he walked up to the front door and rang the bell. While he waited for someone to answer, he examined the door and casing. Both were painted blue, but at arm level he spotted yet another suspicious smear.

Brian Fellows rang the bell again and waited for the better part of a minute before giving up and returning to the Crown Vic where, once again, he called in to the department. “I may be onto something,” he told Lieutenant James Lytle, the weekend supervisor in Investigations. “I’ll need a second detective out here-a detective and a warrant. Tell PeeWee I’m sorry to spoil his day off.”

While he waited for PeeWee Segura to show up, Brian called home as well. “I’m still on that case,” he told Kath when she answered. “It’s just starting to heat up. No telling when I’ll be home.”

As an experienced officer for the Border Patrol, Kath Fellows knew all about the vagaries of law enforcement. “Fair enough,” she told him. “I won’t wait up.”

J. A. Jance

Day of the Dead

Thirteen

Andrea Tashquinth climbed into Brandon’s Suburban and shut the door. “I don’t know why Mother’s doing this,” she said. “Bringing it up after all this time won’t do any good.”

“Your mother’s looking for closure,” Brandon told her.

“Closure?” Andrea repeated bitterly. “What’s the point? Roseanne died, and the cops always thought my father did it. They never arrested him. Nobody ever proved it, but it wrecked Daddy’s life. People talked about him behind his back. He knew it. We all did.” As she spoke, Andrea Tashquinth had been staring down at her lap. Now she looked up at Brandon defiantly.

“Mother told Sam-”

“Sam?” Brandon interrupted.

“My husband. He’s the one who gave Mother a ride into town yesterday.”

Brandon nodded, remembering the invisible son-in-law who had waited patiently outside their Gates Pass home for several long hours the previous day.

“Mother told him,” Andrea resumed, “that you’re doing this for free. I can’t believe that’s true. Mother doesn’t have much money, Mr. Walker. She won’t be able to pay you anything.”

“As I told her yesterday, Ms. Tashquinth, your mother doesn’t have to pay. Neither do you. TLC offers its services free to people like her. We take on old homicide cases and try to solve them. There’s no charge-no financial charge, that is-but there is a cost,” he added.

Andrea’s dark eyes narrowed. “What’s that?” she demanded.

“The cost is in pain for you, your mother, and for everyone else connected to your sister-the very real pain of bringing it up again. You may think you’ve forgotten all about it,” he added, “but once you allow yourselves to remember, it’ll be as real as if it happened yesterday.”

Suddenly, amazingly, Andrea Tashquinth began to sob. “I know,” she said. “It already is. I think about it every day because…” she added, “it’s all my fault.”

The story came out then in fits and starts. “I was almost two years older than Roseanne,” Andrea said. “When I went to first grade, there weren’t many jobs on the reservation and our parents were both migrant workers. They went away for months at a time. Whenever they were gone-to California or Washington or Oregon-Roseanne and I stayed at home with our grandmother-our father’s mother-in Ak Chin.”

“Arroyo Mouth,” Brandon Walker responded in English.

Andrea cast him a sidelong glance. She wasn’t accustomed to Mil-gahn who spoke Tohono O’odham. Once again, just as it had with Andrea’s mother the day before, Brandon’s facility with the Desert People’s native language allowed her to relax a little as she continued.