Kylie Brant - The Last Warrior

He gave a halfhearted shrug. “Never claimed to be a photographer.”

Joe figured that he could guess exactly what Bahe did claim to be, but Delaney’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Did a match show up for the composite?”

“No. Which just means the guy had no prior convictions. Or that the composite sketch wasn’t accurate enough.”

Soon Delaney was seated in the chair before the computer, Joe and Eddie hanging over her shoulder, peering at the pictures and comparing them to the likeness on the sketch. Joe reached forward to tap the screen. “Let’s see that one again.” When Delaney zoomed in on the full frontal view of the man, he and Eddie leaned forward simultaneously for a better look, their shoulders butting.

Joe shot the other man a narrowed look and Eddie backed up, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry.”

For several long moments, Joe looked from the picture to the composite. “No way to be sure,” he muttered, “given the way we put that sketch together. But it seems close. Real close.”

“That’s what I thought.” Delaney selected another photo. “So now you can go talk to him.”

“I’ll be glad to do that, once I…” He stopped as a picture appeared on the screen of an older model blue pickup driving away. She zoomed in on the license plate. “Quite the little detective, aren’t you?” He went to his desk, got a piece of paper and a pen and came back to scribble down the number. “I’ll run this through the MVD. Bring up the other shots of the truck, will you?”

As she obeyed Eddie spoke up. “1992, ’93 blue Dodge Ram. Original wheels, missing a hubcap on the left back driver’s side. Dented tailgate.”

Joe looked over his shoulder and Eddie shrugged. “I said photography wasn’t my thing. Cars and trucks are.”

“Okay. Leave the pictures on the screen. I’ll check it out.”

Delaney didn’t move from the chair. “If you want me to, I could…”

“What I want,” he said, making an attempt to gentle his voice, “is for you to continue doing whatever it is you and Bahe had planned.” With one hand on her arm, he guided her to a standing position. “Take all the pictures you want. But don’t go chasing down people who have used you for target practice. I’ll take it from here.”

She faced him, her expression mutinous. “But thanks a lot, Delaney, for just making my job a whole lot easier.”

Something in him lightened at the reminder of their earlier conversation and he had an urge to cup that angled jaw and kiss that sarcastic mouth. The inclination was totally out of character for him. His involvement with her at all was totally out of character, which should have scared the hell out of him.

“Nice job. Now I’ll take it from here.” It was almost worth it to see her eyes go stormy, the band of gold widening around the iris. He could see what her shrug cost her, as she picked up her camera and packed it away in its case again.

“Keep me posted.”

His voice was mild. “I’ll do that.”

He watched her walk out of the room, until he saw Officer Garcia smirking. “You finished typing up your report on that list of Quintero’s clients?”

“On your desk. Nothing stood out to me, but maybe something will jump for you. I did get a couple of them to admit they’d seen Mary Barlow around when they’d ‘talked’ to Quintero.”

He grunted. So the woman had lied to him about that, not that he was surprised. Faced with a cop, it was most people’s first instinct. Maybe it was time to talk to her again.

Checking Tapahe’s window, it appeared the man was off the phone. Joe headed for the door. First he wanted to get permission to set up some surveillance on Graywolf and see if they could find a stronger connection between him and Quintero. He was willing to spend as long as it took to convince Tapahe that they had enough to do so. And then he’d run the plates on the man who might just turn out to be Delaney’s shooter. Tracking him down would give Joe every bit as much satisfaction as nailing Graywolf.

“So explain this to me again,” Abra Garcia said. “The guy we’re going to talk to was driving a stolen truck?”

“It hasn’t been reported as stolen.” Joe slowed to a stop in front of the address he’d been seeking. The blue truck was sitting in the dirt drive. “But it’s not listed under his name.”

“So this isn’t necessarily his place?” Abra Garcia looked at the small dingy white house, with the screens and outside door missing.

“We’re about to find out.”

They got out of his unmarked police issue Jeep and headed up to the front door. Joe knocked and they waited. He tried again, more loudly this time, and finally the front door opened a crack, and a middle-aged woman peered out at them.

“¿Quiénes son usted?”

“Sergeant Joe Youngblood, ma’am. Criminal Investigations.” Joe showed his shield and continued, “This is Navajo Tribal Police Officer Garcia. Is that your truck in the drive?”

“Si.” She switched to English. “It is my husband’s truck.”

“May we speak to him?”

Her eyes were rounded, plainly worried. “He works. He is not here now. What is the worry?”

“There’s no trouble, ma’am.” Garcia put in smoothly. “We had a report that the person driving this truck a couple hours ago may have witnessed an accident downtown and we’re just following up on that. Were you driving?”

She shook her head slowly. “I do not drive in this country. My son, Niyol.”

Joe took over. “Your son was driving? Is he here? It would be very helpful if we could speak to him.”

Her expression eased slightly. “Un momento.” The door shut again and they waited for several minutes before the woman came back to open the door, biting her lip. “Niyol was here, but now he is gone. I did not see him leave.”

Exchanging a glance with Garcia, Joe said, “How long ago did you see him, Mrs…?”

“Lee. Maria Lee. Niyol was here five minutes before. Five minutes.” She nodded her head emphatically.

Meaning he headed out the back door the second he saw them pulling up to the house, Joe thought cynically. “Do you mind if we look out back? See if he’s still around?”

After a moment’s hesitation the woman shook her head and Joe lost no time rounding the house, only to find the backyard deserted. There was no sign of life in the yards of the nearby houses, either. Rejoining Garcia on the front porch, he asked, “Do you know when he’ll be back? Does he live here with you and your husband?”

“He stays with us sometimes. He lives in Mexico and sometimes he lives here. He was born in Mexico City but his father is Navajo. He has…” She searched for the correct phrase.

“Dual citizenship?”

“Si.”

“Do you mind if we come inside? Look around?”

The woman looked from one to the other of them and then stepped back, allowing them entry into the house.

It was as suffocating as an oven. Almost immediately Joe could feel perspiration dampen his face. He looked through the house. It was sparsely furnished, but there was a telephone, a newer model television and running water.

“What a pretty wall hanging,” he heard Garcia say in back of him. “Did you make it?”

He took advantage of their distraction to peer into a cramped bedroom on his left. There was a large crucifix hanging over the bed, a woman’s clothing interspersed with a man’s in the cramped open closet. The parents’ bedroom.

The door across the hallway was shut. Joe turned the knob, and stepped to the side as the door swung open. But it was as empty as the other rooms appeared to be. An open window indicated the man’s probable exit.

Swiftly he checked the closet, looked under the bed and mattress, went through the dresser drawers, not sure exactly what he was looking for. He found it, though, taped to the back of the dresser. A small notebook and a bankbook.