The shadow-shrouded alley smelled like death. Joe peered through the gloom, gun drawn, and hoped the odor wasn’t an omen. He nudged Arnie and jerked his head toward the overflowing Dumpster against the wall of the next building. Arnie nodded, and they fanned out, approaching carefully. Quintero had been wilier than they’d given him credit for. They’d arrived at his apartment shortly after dawn, warrant in hand. But the drug dealer had gone out the bedroom window as they’d been coming through the front door. He’d disappeared into the alley moments before and the large refuse container offered the best chance of concealment.
Joe held up one hand, and his partner halted, gun trained on the Dumpster. Joe went on silently, spinning rapidly around the other side. The space was empty.
He glanced back at Arnie, the two men communicating silently. While his partner stayed put, Joe checked the rest of the dingy area.
Nothing. Joe turned around, headed back toward Arnie. He was still three yards away when he saw the first sign of movement from the pile of debris inside the Dumpster.
“Down, get down!” He leaped to the side as he shouted, a split second before the area exploded in gunfire. The scene fragmented into stills. Quintero rising from the garbage, his automatic spraying bullets. Arnie stumbling backward, falling against the building. Sliding down its wall to the rubbish-strewn ground.
Joe dived toward his friend, his sights on Quintero as the man turned the gun on him. They fired at the same time, and Joe hit the ground, shielding Arnie’s prone body, prepared to shoot again.
But Quintero was slumped over the front of the Dumpster, his body motionless. As Joe watched, the man’s gun slipped from his hand, clattered to the ground.
“He dead?” Arnie mumbled.
The sound of his partner’s voice had never sounded so good. “Are you?” Joe shot him a quick look, noting the blood running freely down his arm, before turning a watchful gaze back on the dealer.
“Not…even…close.” Arnie stifled a moan as he shifted position, cursed colorfully in English before switching to Spanish. Navajo was too precise a language to lend itself to eloquent cursing. The halting string of obscenities eased Joe’s worry.
Keeping his gun trained on Quintero, Joe pulled his radio from his belt and called for an ambulance. Then he approached the dealer.
He reached out to grab the man’s hair, lifted his head. Quintero’s eyes fluttered, then slid closed again. “You made some bad mistakes all around. You can fix one, though. Give us your supplier’s name. That’s all we want. We’ll have help here in a few minutes.”
But when Joe heard the breath whistling through the man’s chest, he knew that the ambulance wasn’t going to be there in time. Quintero’s lips were moving, but Joe had to lean close to make out the words.
“Go…to…hell.”
The distant sound of sirens could already be heard, but the man’s body had gone limp. Joe released him and eased away. Hell was an Anglo concept, not a Navajo one. But if it did exist, he was pretty sure Quintero was already on his way there.
Arnie had already been taken away to the hospital, but Joe waited for FBI agent Delmer Mitchell to arrive on the scene. Another member of the task force, he was investigating the suspected drug-related homicides of three Navajo youth two weeks earlier.
Joe stood a ways off as the agent went through Quintero’s pockets. “Seems like your job would be easier if you could just do this yourself.”
Joe didn’t bother answering. The Navajo aversion to death was too deeply ingrained in him to be put aside simply to conduct the search, and he knew it was useless to try and explain it to the belagana. Mitchell held up a cell phone, car keys and a large wad of cash. “This is it.” He got to his feet, holding the contents up for Joe’s perusal.
Shoving aside his distaste at touching the dead man’s belongings, he took the cell phone and turned it over, studying it. It looked like one of the disposables that were showing up in nearby department stores. Many of the homes on Navajo Nation lands still didn’t have landlines but cell phones were getting increasingly common, though the coverage was sporadic. Some criminals assumed they were untraceable with the use of prepaid plans. Joe was hoping that didn’t turn out to be the case.
He pressed the button to list the incoming call log and was unsurprised to find it empty. The same was true of the outgoing log. But when he hit Redial a number appeared on the screen and a hard smile crossed his lips.
A whistle escaped Mitchell’s lips. “The guy was carrying over five thousand dollars.” He looked at Joe. “You get anything?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t have much time. He’d have to follow up on the caller before news of Quintero’s death got out. “I’m going to search his apartment. And then I’ll find out whether or not this number leads anywhere.”
“Good-sized bust?” Captain Tapahe leaned back in his chair, working his shoulders tiredly.
Standing before the man’s desk, Joe nodded. “About three kilos of ice. Street value would be about a million, a million point three.”
Tapahe’s face brightened. “Not bad. Maybe he’s our guy after all.”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t think so. I was surprised Quintero has risen that high in the feeding chain, but he doesn’t have the brains to coordinate the kind of network we’re tracking. He was strictly a middleman, and he wasn’t interested in sharing the name of his supplier.”
“Well, he won’t be talking now.” The captain’s voice was matter-of-fact. “The warrant turn up anything in his apartment?”
Joe shifted his weight. His left knee had taken the brunt of his fall that afternoon, and it was throbbing. “He had a throwaway cell phone on him. There were no calls logged on the incoming or outgoing list, but I was able to retrieve one number by hitting Redial.” The captain looked hopeful. “I sent a text message pretending to be Quintero, arranging to meet the guy in back of McDonald’s. Ran the number on the Avalanche he was driving. Showed up registered to Brant Graywolf.” Joe was familiar with the prominent family name and the kid’s juvie sheet.
“Not surprising,” the captain grunted. “The kid’s been in and out of drugs for years. Quintero was probably his supplier. Did you question him?”
“I plan to round up all of Quintero’s known clients and acquaintances. Brant goes to the top of the list. I’m hoping Lucas Tallhorse can perform a dump on the cell and retrieve the incoming and outgoing call logs.” It went without saying that the NTP lacked the funds for specialized technicians. But Officer Tallhorse had proven to be a pretty decent techie in his own right. If Tapahe okayed it, the chief would let the man give the phone a shot, in lieu of his other duties.
The captain nodded. “I’ll make sure he gets to it. Did you find anything else of interest during the search?”
“He was carrying over five thousand on him, and we found another twenty grand in a shoe box stashed under some floorboards beneath the bed.” The man’s imagination hadn’t exceeded his IQ.
“I’ve got something else here for you.” The captain riffled through the piles of papers on his desk until he came up with a scribbled note, which he handed to Joe. “A Hank Yazzie was busted last night for selling liquor out of his garage. Guess he had quite a business going. Anyway, he’s trying to cut a deal and offered up some information about the homicides Mitchell’s investigating.”
Joe felt interest stirring. “Anything that sounded credible?”
Tapahe shrugged. “It might be bogus, but he mentioned Quintero. Said he sold alcohol to Oree and that they sometimes drank together. One of those times, just last week he claims, Quintero mentioned something about the murders. Yazzie thinks he may have been involved.”
Joe narrowed his gaze, considering. With the recent government crackdown on the ingredients for the cheaper, easier-to-make meth, more and more addicts were turning to the crystal ice Quintero had been selling. Because ice was substantially more expensive, there was a corresponding rise in burglaries and robberies as addicts sought to support their habit. But the increased crime rate they’d been experiencing hadn’t prepared any of them for the sheer brutality of the execution-style murder of the three young men. Homicides were still relatively infrequent on the reservation. If Quintero had been involved in that, he’d been more dangerous than Joe had realized.
Joe tucked the note in his pocket. “I’ll pass this on to Agent Mitchell. He might want to talk to Yazzie himself.” He’d let the fed determine if there was any truth in the man’s talk. “What have you heard about Arnie’s condition?”
A smile cracked Tapahe’s countenance for the first time. “He’s going to be okay. Bucking for discharge, and barring that, offering bribes to anyone who’ll bring him a cheeseburger.”
Relief eased the knot in Joe’s chest. Arnie had assured him he was all right, but Joe hadn’t been able to get any such reassurance from the medics who’d arrived on the scene. And the aftermath of the shooting and search had kept him occupied for hours.
The captain continued. “They dug one bullet out of his arm. The Kevlar stopped the other one. Lucky thing. Would have hit him in the heart. That’s why they’re keeping him. They want to monitor his heart for bruising.”
Joe winced in sympathy. The vests were lifesavers but they didn’t deflect a bullet, just caught and spread its momentum over a larger portion of the body. Arnie was lucky the vest had prevented the bullet from penetrating the skin.
Glancing at his watch, Joe said, “I’ll swing by the hospital on the way home.”
“You do that. But don’t let him talk you into smuggling him some fries.”
Joe walked out without making any promises. It was hard to tell when he might be in Arnie’s position, and it never hurt to rack up a few points to call in whenever that time might come.
“The mutton stew was excellent.” Delaney leaned back in her chair and smiled across the table at Charley Youngblood. “And fry bread has just gone on my list of favorites.”
“It was my pleasure.” The older man spoke with a courtliness that was as much a part of him as his seamed weathered face. He was dressed in what seemed a uniform of sorts on the Navajo lands: jeans, Western-style shirt and cowboy boots. Hammered silver and turquoise wristbands encircled his wrists, and his long gray hair was gathered into a tight roll at the nape of his neck and bound with yarn. “I don’t often have guests. Next time you stay for dinner you must try nitsid digoohi, kneel-down corn bread. I think you’ll like that, as well.”
“I’m looking forward to sampling many of the traditional foods during the course of my work here.” And if this afternoon was any indication, she was going to enjoy writing this book even more than she’d expected. Charley Youngblood was clearly a traditionalist, and a fascinating source of Navajo lore. They’d spent hours talking about native legends, and she’d found him a natural storyteller, with a gift for creating intriguing windows into his culture’s past. Already she was toying with the idea of organizing the book to allow entire quotes, complete with photos, of people like Charley who contributed to it. She doubted she could replicate the sheer magic of his words.
The time spent in his company had been soothing. It was easy to immerse herself in the project as she listened to him retell the Creation story, the tale of Changing Woman, the Sun the Moon and the Stars. Easy to forget, at least for a time, his relationship to the man she couldn’t quite push from her thoughts.
She could feel her cheeks heat at the memory of last night. She’d felt awkward coming here today, given what had transpired between her and Joe, even realizing Charley wouldn’t be aware of it. The only thing that had eased her discomfort was knowing Joe would be at work. She didn’t want a chance encounter with him here.
She didn’t want a chance encounter with him anywhere. But she wasn’t naive enough to think she could avoid him indefinitely. Given enough time, she would, however, be ready to face him again with defenses firmly realigned.
Her gaze traveled over the interior of the house. The log structure was six-sided, she assumed to emulate some of the traditional hogans. The interior was comprised of one large living space. The main area was simply yet comfortably furnished with an overstuffed couch and armchairs. The dining area was tucked into one corner, partitioned from the galley kitchen by a counter. A hallway leading to the back of the home led to what she assumed would be bedrooms and a bath.
She’d heard that some on Navajo Nation lands lived without electricity and running water, but Charley’s home was equipped with both. He had a phone but no television or any of the other electronic gadgetry that many took for granted.
The older man rose and began to clear the table, waving her away when she rose and stacked the remaining dishes.
Charley turned to take the dishes from her, and once again shooed her away. “You are my guest,” he said firmly.
Her mother’s strictures about politeness didn’t always apply when she was immersed in foreign cultures. Delaney had learned over the years it was far more civil to follow her host’s wishes than to tussle over sharing the chores, despite the manners Sabrina Carson had drilled into her three children.
Wandering into the main area, Delaney studied the rugs and wall hangings, presumably done by local weavers. Beneath one was an eight-by-ten picture of Charley with a young boy that she’d noticed earlier.
“My great-grandson, Jonny,” Charley said, coming into the room and noting her interest. His voice was filled with pride, and something else, something she couldn’t quite identify. “He looks much like Joseph at that age, although I don’t remember my grandson getting into quite as much mischief.”
Shock whipped through her. Joe Youngblood was a father? Maybe even married?
Speechless, Delaney stared at the picture again. But try as she might, she couldn’t imagine Joe as a doting father. Laughing with his small son. Playing games. Tucking him into bed.
The mental image widened to include a nameless, faceless woman. A wife. She hauled in a breath, feeling a little nauseated. She’d assumed Joe was single, because he hadn’t said otherwise. But she knew some men wouldn’t refrain from taking any willing woman that came across their path, married or not.
And she’d all but hurtled herself into his arms.
Wincing inwardly, she managed, “He has your eyes.”
“Many have said so.” It was impossible to miss the satisfaction in Charley’s voice as he came to her side and picked up the picture. “When he’s in the room, he fills it with light. Small boys are all energy, you know.”
What Delaney knew about children wouldn’t fill a teacup. She had more pressing concerns at the moment. “I didn’t realize your grandson was married.”
“I’m not.”
She froze at the sound of that familiar voice, for just an instant. Then she turned, tucking the tips of her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans, and surveyed the man she’d sworn she wouldn’t react to again. “Maybe you should wear a little bell around your neck. That way your silent entrances won’t endanger people with cardiac arrest.”
Joe shut the door behind him, his gaze traveling to the man standing beside her. “Grandfather.”
“Joseph.” Charley replaced the picture while Delaney watched the two of them closely. Their polite tones belied the palpable undercurrents eddying between them. “I heard about Arnie. Is he all right?”
“I just saw him. He’s already bullying the nurses about his release. He could be back on the job in a few days.” Joe walked into the center of the room and immediately shrank it with his presence. The realization had Delaney’s earlier vow evaporating. A woman would have to be dead not to respond to this man.
With both Youngblood men in the same room it occurred to her again how little they resembled each other. Joe was close to six foot, with finer, sharper features than the older man. His nose was narrow and straight, the thick dark hair she’d had her fingers twisted in last night was worn short. And while Charley emanated a quiet dignity that immediately commanded respect, Joe radiated a subtle menace that induced wariness. As well as a raw sexuality that gripped a woman by the throat and ripped a reaction from her.
Steeling herself, she schooled her expression to polite interest. “Your grandfather is a wonderful host. He spent the afternoon explaining some of the better-known Navajo legends and then followed up his hospitality with a delicious meal.”
“You’ve been here all day?”
She wondered how a voice could be expressionless and still hold a note of censure. He must work at it.
Charley saved her from answering. “I was just going to offer to show Delaney the hogan and the sweat house.”
The idea was appealing but making a sudden decision, she moved toward Charley, not caring in the slightest that she was turning her back on Joe. “You know, it’s just occurred to me how much of your time I’ve taken up today. I get like that when I’m engrossed in something, I’m afraid.” She reached over to squeeze his hand. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I’m going to give you time to visit with…your grandson. We can continue this whenever it’s convenient for you.”
They decided on a time the next day and she collected her equipment, all the while aware of Joe’s inscrutable gaze on her. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“I’ll help you get this to your Jeep.”
Joe slung the strap of her camera case over his shoulder and picked up her tripod. Delaney clenched her jaw at his high-handedness. “That’s okay. I can get it.”
“It’s no problem.” Leaving her with the bag containing her tape recorder and notebooks, he strode to the door. Because she had no choice, she told Charley goodbye and followed.
Joe had already stowed the equipment in the backseat and started the ignition before Delaney caught up with him. She put her bag in the backseat next to the camera and slammed the door with more force than necessary. “In a hurry to get me out of here?”
“Your Jeep has been sitting in the sun all day. It’s going to take a while for the air conditioner to cool it.” His hand clamped on her arm when she would have opened the driver’s door.
A current of electricity seemed to transfer from his hand to her arm. Ignoring it, she looked pointedly at his hand, then at him. “Was there something else?”
“Yeah. I want you to be careful not to wear Charley out. He won’t say anything, but he tires easily.”
She cocked a brow. “Sure wish I’d known that before I had him running laps around the edge of the property today.”
At her sardonic tone, Joe’s words grew clipped. “He had triple bypass surgery three months ago. He’s still recovering. Keep that in mind.”
Concern filled her. “He didn’t mention it.”
“He wouldn’t. So I am.”
Silence stretched, their gazes locked. There was no sign of the lover from last night who had pounded himself into her with a fierce need that had matched her own. She swallowed, the memory turning her knees weak. Deliberately stiffening them, she said, “We weren’t discussing you, you know. When you came in. I was just surprised when your grandfather said the boy was yours. At first I thought…I was afraid…”
“You thought I’d screwed around on my wife with you.”
Though she knew his words were deliberately chosen to maximize her discomfort, she didn’t look away. “I don’t cheat,” she said simply. “And I don’t sleep with men who do. But I didn’t ask you before, and I’m finding it a little hard to forgive myself for not making sure first.”
Although his expression didn’t alter, something in it seemed to ease infinitesimally. “I’m divorced, but not because I ever cheated on my wife.”
She drew in a breath, then barreled on. “Last night was…” A colossal error in judgment. Amazing. Fantastic. Fraught with complications. “Well, it shouldn’t have happened.” It was difficult to think while pinned by that unwavering stare. She strove for a flippant tone, thought she managed it well enough. “If you’re worrying that I’m going to try to throw all sorts of strings on you, don’t be. It was a onetime thing. You had the good fortune to be seduced by a desperate woman but not one who’s interested in a repeat.”
“Don’t kid yourself.” There was a light in his eyes, a dangerous burn. His grip on her arm had loosened, but his thumb skated over the veins in her wrist, making the skin there tingle. “You didn’t take me anywhere I didn’t want to go. Did it feel like you were alone in that bed? Or against that wall? I was inside you because that’s what I wanted. Not because you gave me permission or because I asked for it. And when I want that again-when we both do-I won’t need to ask permission then, either.”
He released her and she leaned bonelessly against the Jeep, barely feeling the hot metal beneath the material of her thin T-shirt. Her voice, when she found it, sounded irritatingly breathless. “I think it’s best if we keep our interactions to a minimum in the future.”
“Do you?” His smile was humorless. “Then you’re not going to be too happy when I tell you I plan to come over as soon as I speak to my grandfather.”
Anger blessedly cut through her stupor. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough earlier.”
“I think we understand each other.” While she searched those words for hidden meaning, he went on. “You downloaded those pictures today, right? The ones you took yesterday? I told you I want to see them. I’ll be over in a couple hours.”
No. That was out of the question. “I’ll make copies and drop them off at police headquarters tomorrow.”
“I want to see them tonight. I’ll be by later.”
When she finally found her voice again he was already walking away. “No, don’t do that. Joe. Joe!” She was still calling impotently after him when he walked into his grandfather’s cabin and shut the door behind him.
“A delightful woman,” Charley said as Joe closed the door on Delaney’s voice. “But older than her years, I think.”
Joe shrugged. The last thing he wanted to discuss with his grandfather was Delaney Carson. He’d been unable to banish her from his thoughts all day. “How’d you hear about Arnie?” He crossed the room to an easy chair, waited respectfully until his grandfather had poured them both coffee, handed Joe a mug and seated himself. Only then did Joe sit.
“Lucy Bai called me. She and Arnie are Ashiihi. She knew you two worked together and wanted to know if you had been hurt, too.”
Joe nodded. In the Anglo way, the fact that Arnie and Lucy were of the Salt Clan would make them cousins, but Navajos consider members of the same clan as brother and sister. “I’m sorry if hearing the news that way worried you. I’m fine.”
“I long ago came to terms with the danger of your job, Joseph. But I also can’t help but worry. So,” he brought the coffee to his lips, sipped, “Did you catch this man? Lock him up in your jail?”
Joe hesitated. His idea of justice rarely reconciled with that of his grandfather. Charley believed that all bad behavior was caused by the criminals’ disharmony. Rather than prison, the only way to help them was with a Mountain Way ceremony, to drive the dark wind out of them and restore them to hozho, with all their friends and relatives gathered to support them.
“No. There were shots fired. Arnie was hit. The drug dealer who shot him was killed.”
Distress flickered over Charley’s face. But he said only, “You must be watchful, Joseph.” Although it was customary to avoid speaking of it, Joe knew his grandfather referred to the chindi-or ghost that each person releases when they die-an evil force that returns to avenge offenses.
“I will be.” At times it felt like a balancing act to straddle two worlds. And yet he could no more reject one than he could the other. So he lived in the American culture that permeated every part of the country while remaining connected to the teachings of his Diné roots. The resulting mixture wasn’t always one his grandfather understood, but it brought harmony to Joe.
“You’re looking well. You must have succeeded in cleaning out your friends on Monday night.”
Charley chuckled. “I did all right, although not as well as Larry Blackwater. That was fine with me. Now he’s the one the others don’t want back.”
“I came by to see you that night. I forgot you’d be out.” Joe hooked a booted ankle on his knee. “I know we disagree on this photo history project, but I meant no disrespect.”
“We both have strong opinions.” Charley shrugged, as if it were of no consequence. “You’re too much like me. And maybe like your mother, as well. She has trouble hearing ideas that aren’t her own.”
Joe stiffened at the mention of his mother, at the trace of wistful indulgence in his grandfather’s voice. Charley would never stop missing the daughter who derided the very way of life he cherished. Joe had been no more than Jonny’s age when he realized that her infrequent visits to the reservation were always driven more by a need for money than sentiment. Navajo culture was matriarchal in nature, but Joe had little use for the woman who had borne him at seventeen, only to disappear months later. As far as he was concerned, the best thing she’d ever done for him was to allow her father to raise him.
“And what do you think of our Delaney Carson now?”
The non sequitur had Joe freezing, his mind flashing back to an image of Delaney pressed between the wall of the kitchen and his body. He could almost feel the heat of her again, taste her flavor. Just that mental lapse was enough to have his blood thickening, his gut clenching.
“What about her?” He brought the mug to his lips, took his time drinking.
“She told me that the two of you had met. Given her résumé, I had expected someone older. But there’s something about her. I think she’ll win over many of those who opposed her hiring. And others may become convinced when they see what her name means to this book project.”
Joe stilled. “What about her name?”
“She won a Pulitzer Prize for international reporting. I understand that she went back to Iraq after her injuries were treated to continue her work.” Charley paused to drink slowly, savoring the brew. Caffeine was one of the things in his diet that his heart doctor strictly rationed. “This will be the first project she’s undertaken since, so it will receive a great deal of publicity simply because it has her name attached to it. This book could bring a great deal of publicity to the tribe.”
Joe’s fingers clenched tightly on the mug. He was recalling the sight of Delaney’s face after she’d burst from the cave. As she sat, head bowed, staring miserably at the bottle of Absolut on the kitchen table. Something ignited in his chest at the thought of the tribe trading on the very experiences that had scarred her, that still caused her such pain.
He leaned forward, set the mug on the table in front of him, and wondered uneasily where this unfamiliar surge of protectiveness had come from. He barely knew the woman. One night of sex, no matter how hot, didn’t change that. But he knew enough about her to be certain she wouldn’t thank him for his concern.
Last night was a onetime thing.
Her earlier words shouldn’t have summoned an instant primordial possessiveness, one he’d barely recognized. She was right, and he realized that. Getting involved with any woman right now was a distraction he could ill afford.
But getting involved with one who could make him feel…that was a disaster waiting to happen. And a risk he wasn’t willing to take.