The flea market was a riot of the senses. Delicious smells wafted from some of the vendors’ booths, while the brightly colored blankets, artwork and crafts caught the eye in others. There was a steady hum of voices, mingled, indistinguishable from this distance, except for an occasional burst of laughter.
Already Delaney’s fingers itched for her camera, ready to capture the vivid color, the slivers of culture and the individuals whose very faces had stories to tell.
“I’d recommend an earlier start next time,” Eddie advised. He’d insisted on carrying one of her tripods, and wore the strap of her second camera around his neck. “That’s the only way to beat the heat in the summer months, at least for a while.”
“I suppose.” Although the statement was true, it didn’t fill her with any enthusiasm. Sleep didn’t come easily enough for her to voluntarily rouse from it only a handful of hours later. But waiting until sheer exhaustion overcame her, usually around 2:00 or 3:00 a.m., she could avoid the nightmares that often plagued her.
Last night had been an exception, however. She quickened her step to keep pace with Eddie’s longer stride. The reason for her wakefulness had been the man lying beside her.
She’d been too aware of him. Long after passion had been spent and his breathing had gone deep, her senses remained alert. It still felt foreign to have his big body spread out next to hers, the weight of his arm curled around her waist, holding her close. Not unpleasant. Just…different.
It wasn’t as if she’d never shared a bed with a man before. But she divided her life into two distinct parts, before Baghdad, and after. There’d been no one since Reid, no one since her life had snapped, then been put back together, forever altered. Sometimes she felt as though she’d been rendered blind two years ago, and she now had her hands out in front of her, feeling her way through days and experiences that used to come so effortlessly.
So when her instinct had been to roll away and curl up in a tight ball meant to ward off the specters that frequently accompanied sleep, she’d made herself lie there. And get used to the still steady warmth of a man she couldn’t say she really even knew, on a personal level. But one who called to something deep inside her.
“Give me a minute.” Delaney took the camera out of the case and shot the scene from where she stood, hoping to capture the bustle of human life. She clicked several pictures in quick succession, moved to take up a different position and started again. She wasn’t sure how long it was before she grew aware of Eddie standing nearby, watching the throngs of people.
“Sorry.” She straightened, sheepish. “I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of standing around when you’re with me.”
“I’m flexible.” He gave her a broad grin. “That’s why the council hired me. Plus I’ve worked as a guide at just about all the major tourist spots around these…” He broke off to tip his hat up to better view a woman, early twenties or so, walking by with a tray of breads. When he looked back at Delaney, saw her raised eyebrows he laughed without a shred of embarrassment. “I’m also a trained observer.”
They fell in step again. “Then you observed that she was way too young for you.”
“You think?” He gave her a flirtatious wink. “But you’re not, are you?”
“I’m too old.” They were probably close to the same age in years, but she couldn’t match Eddie’s laid-back manner. She’d never again be that open, that casual, that relaxed. But those same traits made him an easy companion. He stopped when she wanted to, making introductions to anyone he knew, which seemed to be more than half of the people they encountered. Most were cordial, inquisitive about her, although there were a few whose expressions went blank and closed at the introduction.
Delaney quickly found herself losing track of time, as she stopped by vendors and got wrapped up in conversation. One woman explained at length how she wove the brightly colored rugs she displayed and what the figures on them symbolized. She was more than happy to pose for some photographs when Delaney asked, and even agreed to talk to Delaney at a later date, when they’d have more time to discuss the craft she’d learned from her grandmother before her.
There were booths displaying old items rather than new, and Eddie explained that some of the vendors engaged in what would most accurately be called a swap meet. Others sold used goods, and business seemed to be brisk.
As promised, Eddie eventually led her to the booth with “the best” corn cakes and while he wrangled good-naturedly with the pretty girl selling them, Delaney stepped a little ways away and took more pictures. The crowd was thinning a bit, the sun merciless overhead. She caught sight of a little girl, no more than three or four, and she smiled, enchanted when the child grinned in return.
Delaney indicated her camera. “Would you like to take a picture?” The girl swiftly turned to check with her mother, who was on the other side of the booth straightening the turquoise necklaces and rings. At the woman’s nod the child scampered over. Delaney helped her cradle the camera, showed her how to look through the optical viewfinder and take a picture of her mother before she straightened and looked around for Eddie. It wasn’t the sight of her guide flirting with the clerk, that caught her attention, however. It was the man standing a couple hundred feet past him.
The ground seemed to rock beneath her feet. She closed her eyes, reopened them, expecting to discover that the man was a stranger, like the rest of the people in the crowd. But he wasn’t. He was the man in the composite the police artist had done. The completed sketch of the person who had shot at her, days before.
Without conscious thought she moved closer to Eddie’s side, blocking the man’s view of her. He was four or five booths down, on the same side of the street. She peered around Eddie’s form, waiting to get a better look at him.
After several seconds he faced the vendor, holding up two hatbands and talking rapidly. While the clerk brought out another tray of wares to show him, the man glanced around, giving Delaney a full view of his face.
Her last shred of doubt was dashed. This was the man who’d wielded the rifle. She shifted again, before he could catch sight of her. “Here you go.” Eddie turned and handed her a piece of corn cake. “Best taste and the best price. You’ll thank me later.”
“I’ll thank you now if you’ll do something for me.” She gave him a nudge to get him to move a few inches away. “Look to your right at the man picking out hatbands.” She sighed as he looked past her. “No, your other right. There. See him? Black hat? Red-and-black shirt?”
“The guy buying the concha shell band? He’s getting ripped off. Sheballa does the best workmanship, but I don’t see him here today. He’s usually set up at the end of this row.”
“Eddie,” she whispered urgently, “Concentrate! I want you to take my camera. Saunter closer, casually,” she stressed, “and act like you’re taking pictures of the vendors and the wares. Make sure you’ve got him in every picture you take, but don’t act like you’re taking his picture. Got it?”
“Not really.”
She took the corn cake and tripod from him and shoved the camera in his hand, showed him how to focus and snap the shot. “Quickly. Before he leaves.” Giving him a little push, she faded behind a trio that stepped up for an order of fry bread and Eddie looked around, seeming a little lost.
In a moment, however he raised the camera and ambled away. Delaney let out a breath of relief. Her plans for the rest of the day abruptly morphed. She wanted to get these pictures to Joe, to see if he agreed that the man was the one they were looking for. She moved to keep Eddie and the man in sight, while still keeping people between them.
The stranger was leaving. Eddie continued to snap pictures, as she walked up behind him. “Let’s see what you got.”
The guide looked at her oddly, but handed over the camera and took a piece of the corn cake she held. “Okay, do you want to tell me why a guy buying a hatband is so important for your book? Because if you’ve got a thing for hats, I’ve got a half dozen of them at home, all with better-looking bands than the one that guy bought.”
“Sorry.” She set down the tripod and viewed the pictures he’d taken, surprised at the number he’d managed with clear shots. “Nice job. Maybe I could make a photographer of you.” Then she happened across one plainly focused on the bosom of the girl they’d passed earlier on the way to the market. “Or maybe not.”
“I said I was flexible,” he reminded her, his mouth full of corn cake. “Never said I was blind. Or stupid. What the heck is going on?”
She started strolling in the same direction as the man they’d photographed, heading away from the flea market. “I think I know that man from somewhere.”
“So instead of going up to talk to him, you take secret pictures of him.” He took another bite, swallowed.
“Well, he sort of tried to kill me a few days ago so I’m not feeling especially friendly. C’mon.” She hastened her stride, keeping her head down. “I want to follow him.”
But Eddie had stopped in his tracks. “He tried to kill you? Why?”
With an impatient gesture she hurried him along. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like photographers. Maybe he prefers blondes. Whatever his motive, I’d like to find out, wouldn’t you?” There was no use telling him what she knew about the man’s motives, which was depressingly little. “The police are looking for him and I want them to find him, so let’s go.”
They trailed him for a block or so, lagging well behind, but keeping him in sight. When he got into a pickup Delaney attached the zoom lens to her camera. She stepped into the street, brought the camera up again and took several pictures as he was driving away.
Eddie watched her, clearly at a loss for words. “Well, now what? You still want to go to Monument Valley?”
“Maybe later.” She lowered the camera, staring after the truck pensively. “First I need to go to the police.”
“You’re getting to be a popular guy, Joe.” Vicki Smith didn’t bother to try and hide the curiosity in her gaze when she showed Delaney and a strange man to the computer he was logging off of.
He rose, looking from Delaney to the man he assumed was the guide the council had hired for her. “I thought you were going to Monument Valley today.”
“We were. But first we went to the flea market. You’re not going to believe this. Look.” She held the LCD screen of her camera up to him and began flipping through the pictures Eddie had taken.
He looked obediently, his brows rising when he saw one in particular. “I’m not sure that young lady would appreciate your interest in her cleavage.”
Her sigh was exasperated. “Men. Look at the guy in the hat. Does he seem familiar to you? At all?”
Joe looked closer, and recognition flickered. “Maybe. Let’s get these on the computer screen for a comparison.”
He shot a look at the man standing silently behind them. “And you are?”
“That’s Eddie Bahe. My guide. Eddie, special investigator Joe Youngblood.”
Bahe, who had looked more than a little uncomfortable since he’d come in, looked distinctly more so as Joe continued to stare at him. He smiled weakly. “I’m going to be helping the lady out while she’s on the Rez.”
“Don’t tell me. That was your handiwork we saw on the camera.”
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.
The women’s voices were coming closer. He tore the items free of the tape and flipped through them. A savings account at a Flagstaff bank showed that Niyol Lee had deposited sums of five thousand dollars almost monthly for the last three years. Dropping the bankbook on the bed, he opened the notebook, which seemed to be a combination of jotted initials and dates. It was the first of the initials that caught Joe’s eye, though. B.G.
He resecured both books behind the dresser a second before the two women appeared in the doorway, but his mind continued to race. B.G.
Brant Graywolf?
“I don’t understand the connection.”
It had been late when Joe appeared on Delaney’s step, but she hadn’t been asleep. She suspected he knew that; that he understood sleep didn’t come easily to her. And she appreciated the fact that he didn’t comment on it.
“I don’t know the connection yet,” Joe admitted. He picked up his plate and took it to the sink, rinsing it off, and the hominess of the gesture almost succeeded in distracting her. She’d made him eggs, one of the few meals she could manage without burning and he’d eaten with a single-minded intensity that told her better than words how long it had been since he’d last eaten.
He turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. “But Graywolf is linked to Quintero. Quintero might be linked to those three kids who were murdered three weeks ago.” She shuddered, remembering the short succinct description he’d given her of the scene. “And Lee is linked to you, because we’re pretty sure he’s the one who fired those shots a few days ago. Now it’s looking like he might also be linked to Graywolf.”
“You can’t be sure those initials are his.”
“No,” Joe admitted. “But all initials and dates in that book seemed to correlate to the dates of the deposits made in Lee’s bank account.” He unbuckled his holster, wrapped the straps around the sheathed weapon. “Lee’s mother said he only stayed there some of the time when he was in the area, so maybe he’s got another place to hide. But something tells me the three of them-the guy shooting at you, Graywolf and Quintero-are all connected.”
“Why would someone keep records that could incriminate them?” She trailed after him as he left the kitchen and walked into her bedroom, where he set the gun on the dresser. He sat on the edge of the bed, and starting pulling off his boots.
Delaney’s stomach jittered oddly at the sight. He shrank the space when he was in it. Heck, he stamped the whole house with his presence. And it all seemed too much, too soon. The familiarity of his showing up here. Her feeding him. Even talking about the case. It all seemed so…domestic.
The term had her mouth drying out. She didn’t do domestic and she certainly didn’t do long-term. Just the thought had anxiety skating along her nerves. She was used to being the outsider, always looking in, always observing. There was a certain distance necessary to see all angles of the story.
It had never bothered her before, it was just something that was, like her hair or eye color. It wasn’t until she’d finished her last project and allowed herself to go home, her nerves in shreds, nightmares and alcohol sharing a viselike grip on her psyche, that she realized the truth-she didn’t belong anywhere anymore. She could go home but she couldn’t be at home there. And the sincere love and support her family had tried to offer had, at times, felt as smothering as the flashbacks that dragged her back into the past.
She wasn’t sure why that fact struck her now, except that she’d never seen a man with a stronger sense of belonging than Joe Youngblood. His ties to his culture, to his family were so much a part of him that one couldn’t be separated from the other. And knowing that filled her with a sort of wistfulness, as if he had something she didn’t want. Didn’t need. But recognized all the same as something she’d never have.
He was staring at her and she realized with a start that he’d been speaking. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I said Lee might be keeping it to incriminate someone else. It might be insurance in case he gets caught at whatever the hell he’s doing, so he has something to trade.” His T-shirt came off next and the sight of that wide expanse of hard bronzed flesh had all doubts and distractions receding. She looked away, the blood in her pulse turning slow and heavy.
The silence in the room went thick.
“Delaney.”
She swallowed, struggled to tuck away the unfamiliar tide of emotion that threatened to flood her. It was so much easier not to feel at all, to avoid feelings that brought pain more often than anything else. How had she forgotten that? And why?
Slowly, she met his gaze.
“I can go.”
It’d be better if he did. Better if they both had time to recall all the reasons this was to be kept casual. Emotionless.
But the thought of sending him out that door, alone, didn’t leave her feeling casual or emotionless. Whatever the cost, she realized, she’d made her choice the first night she’d slept with him. All she could do was hope that the cost wouldn’t be too great. “I want you to stay.”
His dark gaze searched hers, but when she went to him, smoothed her hands over the bunched muscles in his shoulders, the tension seemed to seep away.
He pulled her closer, spread one large palm on her bottom while his other hand slipped under her shirt. “You sure?”
Already desire was trumping doubt. A thousand tiny flames flickered to life beneath the skin where he touched her. She pressed her lips against his and whispered, “No. But I’m willing to be convinced.”