Death and Desire (12 page)

W
hen I rounded the corner into the news bull pen, Louis scrutinized my face. “You sure look relaxed, gal. Must be quieter out at your place.”

“Not really. Mac was poisoned last night.”

“Mac! How is he?”

“He's going to be all right.” I exhaled with relief. “I just came from the vet's and I can pick him up this afternoon.”

Louis stroked his chin, grinning. “Since we didn't get a phone call last night, and you look damn near boneless, I assume one Trace Yazzie was there last night?”

I didn't have to answer. He only had to look at me. I smiled and shrugged.

“Eric and I are happy for you. Real happy. You need him in your life.” Louis squeezed the breath out of me with his exuberant hug. He clapped his hands in delight, rubbing them together. “Eric and I will have one of our dinner-on-the-deck evenings so we can get to know him. Now tell me what happened to Mac.”

I told him about the poison and the pouch Trace found on the deck.

“This is some serious shit.”

“I know. I'm responsible for Mac and I feel terrible about him. If he'd died, I couldn't have stood it. I'm doing the best I can. And I'm going to keep Mac and me safe.” I had been babbling for several moments.

“You know you can call us anytime?”

“I know,” I said softly. “Thanks. You two are the best.” I rummaged in my locked desk drawer and found the ladle handle.

“You gonna take that out to Yanaha?”

“Eventually. Right now, I'm taking it over to Alison Garcia for her to take a look at it.”

“Get rid of the thing. You don't want to end up like Shumwell.”

His statement rang ominously in my ears as I left the station.

 

Dr. Garcia was puttering with pottery chips, separating them by design, when I walked in. She swiveled on her high stool. Damn! I tried not to react to the sight of her. Gone was the stylish young professor with perfect thick hair, white-tipped manicure, and designer heels. “Dr. Garcia, I'm sorry. If you aren't well, we can meet some other time.”

She waved a hand irritably at me. “I'm fine. Let me see what you bought at the auction.”

I studied her as she studied the ladle. She was pale and her hand shook. Her dirty hair made a messy pile on her head.

“Your piece is from the Basketmaker III era, fifteen hundred years ago. It's La Plata Black on White, and this particular ladle is an example of the very early painted Cibola White Wares,” she recited in her academic voice. She put it in my outstretched hand. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I'm going to do what the federal repatriation act requires of me—return it to the tribe.”

Her expression soured. “I'm glad it's going home, but you know it won't make a difference out here, even if you do a dozen news stories. Meth has changed the rules. Stealing and selling pottery gets you money for meth.”

“How much trading of pottery for meth is going on?” I asked.

“You're the reporter,” she gibed. “You figure it out.”

I intended to. “Do you believe the Chindi torment people who disturb the burial sites?”

“It's enough that the Navajo believe it, and most are afraid enough of evil to stay away from burial sites. Looting and collecting—that's mostly done by non-natives.”

I thanked her and left. The ladle burned a hole in my hand. I couldn't wait to take it Yanaha. And why would Alison, in her ivory tower, make that comment about trading pottery for meth?

 

On the way back to my car, I enjoyed the extensive alpine gardens on campus. I was struck by how quiet it was. No student chatter. Knots of silent students all looked down. No one was talking. They had earbuds in and were staring at their phones or their iPods. I hadn't been out of college that long. When did this happen? UNM had been full of laughter and call-outs when we walked across campus. The silence spooked me. They didn't even look up when they crossed the street.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Hi, Marty . . . What? Damn. I'm on my way.” I sprinted for the Rav.

I did a U-turn, squealing the tires, and spun out toward Tribal Police headquarters.

When I arrived, only police cruisers dotted the lot. I virtually patted myself on the back for being first on the story.

Officer Susan Etisitty was manning her station. “I bet you're interested in the two boys that were just brought in.” She smiled smugly.

I acted pleased that she had guessed why I was there. “I am. I'd like a word with the arresting officer.”

“That would be Captain Yazzie. Unlucky for you, he won't be free for a few minutes.” She preened with her authority.

“Are the two boys detained here?”

“Yes, right back there.” She pointed to the wall behind her.

“I'd like to visit the boys.”

She led the way back to a holding cell where two Navajo boys sat on the lower cot. I knew she had to stay while I talked to them. She stood to the right of the cell, waiting for me to finish.

The smaller boy held his face in his hands, rocking silently back and forth. The taller boy stared a thousand yard stare to nowhere.

“Hi, I'm Taylor McWhorter with KNAZ. You want to tell me what happened?”

The smaller boy jumped off the cot and grabbed the bars. “Motherfucker set us up! Cop was waiting for us.” His spittle landed on my shoulder. The other boy, perhaps a little older, tracked his cellmate with his eyes.

“Who's the motherfucker in question?” I asked.

“Don't answer! No, no!” The older boy grabbed the younger's arm. “He'll kill us!” He jerked the boy back from the bars shouting rapidly in Navajo, gesturing wildly until the younger boy threw a roundhouse punch the older boy neatly sidestepped. They scuffled on the hard concrete floor. The older boy pinned the younger one and whispered fiercely in his ear. As one, they sat down on the stained cot, presenting a unified front of stony silence, desperate to hide their terror.

I stuck my card between the bars. Neither reached out a hand to take it and it fluttered to the cell floor. “Call me if you want to talk.”

“I'm done here,” I said to Officer Etisitty.

When I followed her out of the cell block to her desk, Trace's door stood open. Officer Etisitty knocked on the frame and announced me to Trace. When she backed out of his office, she left the door ajar. Trace called out to her, “Will you close the door behind you?”

When the door closed and we were alone, he continued, “Have a seat. I assume the station heard of the arrest on the police scanner and you caught the story.”

I wasn't listening. I was admiring his body silhouetted in the light from the window and thinking about how sexy he looked naked in my bed this morning.

“Taylor?”

“Uh, yes. I just saw the boys and they didn't say much. What happened ?”

“I got a call here at the station. The voice, distorted by one of those digital programs, told me two Navajo boys driving an old blue Chevy pickup were coming up Highway 89 with a load of meth.

“Were they?”

“Yeah, they were, and that's not all they were carrying. They had several Black Mesa and Kayenta Black on White Anasazi pots and a lot of shards.”

“You've already had the pottery identified?” I was surprised.

He looked amused. “You forget I was an Anthro major. Black Mesa and Kayenta are the two predominant styles of pottery around here.”

“Any cash on them?”

“Five dollars.”

“Do you think they traded pottery for the meth? I came here from Alison Garcia's over at the U, and she talked about that.”

“That's an assumption. They're charged with intent to distribute meth and holding illegally gained artifacts, pending further investigation. They're not doing much talking to me either.”

“Do you know these boys?”

“I know their families.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Christ! They're just fifteen and seventeen. They haven't been in any trouble to speak off.”

“Has anybody been arrested on the Nation for trading relics for meth?”

“This arrest is our first arrest with intent to distribute.” He dodged the question. “We have had several arrests for simple possession.”

“Who called you and told you where to find them?”

“The number is from a burner phone and the voice distortion software will make it impossible to recognize the voice.” He rubbed his hands across his face. “You're asking the right question.”

The silence was awkward. He never dropped his eye contact. I made a tactical shift. “Would you say the Navajo Nation has a meth problem?”

“I'd say America has a meth problem.” He rolled his neck on his shoulders and artfully changed the subject. “How's Mac doing?”

“I'm sure he's ready to be home. I'm glad you were there.”

“Captain Yazzie,” Officer Etisitty called through the door. “The boys' parents are here.”

I rose to leave him to take care of other business. “See you at six,” I called over my shoulder to Trace as I stepped out of his office to the reception desk, giving Officer Etisitty a tidbit to chew on. She picked up her bag and headed to the front door. I gave her room and followed her out.

Might be interesting to see where she went
.
I dawdled getting to my car, watching her head toward town, giving her a minute. Her rig was decked out with a headache rack and a shiny ranch-hand bumper. I understood the gal's bumper. Even if she didn't tow a horse trailer, if she got rear ended, the bumper would save her costly body work on the pickup, though it would do a lot a damage to the front end of the other car. But a headache rack? Looked fine shining in the sun, but I didn't think she used the ladder design to tie down lumber and tools, and I knew the aftermarket add-ons were expensive. I couldn't lose her in a town the size of Flag, but Flag's size cut two ways; I didn't want her to see me following.

I kept several vehicles between us. She turned onto Arroyo Parkway, which puzzled me. It was all high-end residential until it dead-ended at a city park by the hospital's campus.

She continued past the large houses set back from the road. I parked by a small green space with kids' swing sets and a sand volleyball court. I locked the Rav to follow on foot. From a stand of trees, I watched her park in a circle drive and enter an attractive one-story adobe building on the hospital campus. A discrete sign labeled the building Arroyo Alzheimer's Facility. Several residents were in wheelchairs under the front veranda. In a few minutes, Susan reappeared pushing a tiny old woman in a wheelchair, tucked under a heavy blanket, though the sun was warm. Behind Susan, an aide in blue scrubs pushed an elderly man's wheelchair and parked him side by side with the old woman. He reached out and shakily took her hand and pulled it into his lap. She made no sign she knew he was there. The aide spoke to Susan, waved good-bye to the couple, and disappeared into the facility. Susan fussed over the elderly couple, straightening blankets and kneeled down to talk to them. The woman never turned her head toward Susan. Even the old man finally lapsed into a vacant stare.

Were they Susan's grandparents? How could they afford to be in this expensive facility?

M
ac effusively welcomed his release from the animal hospital. On the drive to Trace's condo, I worried that his job and mine might drive a wedge between us. As though sensing my distress, Mac whined and nosed my thigh. “One investigative reporter plus one straight-arrow cop doesn't equal equanimity,” I told him absently. I didn't want an eight-hundred-pound gorilla sitting on the sofa while Trace and I craned our necks around it and made idle conversation pretending the room didn't smell.

Trace kissed me lightly on the cheek. “You look wonderful.” He nuzzled my neck. “You smell good, too.” He stood aside. “Come in and let me show you the place.” Mac walked right in.

“He feels at home.” Trace laughed. Mac sat on Trace's black boots and looked up expectantly for pets. “Come on.” Trace indulged him and urged him out of the foyer.

I was curious about his place and how he lived. In his living room, a corner kiva fireplace anchored the room. He owned the requisite man-size recliner, a leather sofa, a fifty-inch flatscreen, and one beautiful room-size Ganado red and black Navajo rug. A large balcony off the deck held a gas grill and two chairs. Heat waves poured off the closed grill.

“Beautiful rug.”

I followed him into the galley kitchen where he put the boxed pie on the counter. Two steaks were coming to room temperature beside a large green salad.

He flipped the meat in the marinade. “My mom made that rug. Yanaha gave it to me when I moved back here. Come through here and you'll have seen the whole place.” I walked down a short hallway to the bedroom. A smaller Navajo rug anchored the foot of his bed. Completing the space were a chest of drawers and small bedside table with a lamp that shone into the adjoining tiled bath.

“Nice place. You've got a good view of the mountains from your deck and your bedroom window.”

“I bought it for the view of the San Francisco peaks. Can I get you a drink?”

“What are you having?” I followed him back to the kitchen.

“Corona, but I bought Dos Equis for you.”

“Dos Equis it is.”

He popped the top. I waved away the glass, preferring the frosty bottle. I nibbled cheese and grapes from the plate he had set out. “Bring your drink out while I grill the meat.”

I carried the plate of nibbles out on the balcony. The snow line was inching to the top of the mountains, marking the passage to spring. The steaks sizzled when he put them on the grill and the smell of seared meat made me hungry. “How was it when the parents picked up the boys?”

“Unhappy.” He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing tan forearms. I enjoyed watching the ropy muscles contract and relax as he worked he grill.

He waved the barbecue fork at me. “These are strong families. The boys were embarrassed to bring shame on their parents.”

“What do you think will happen to them?”

“They might get by with rehab and community service. If the judge is a hard-liner, they'll go to juvenile lockup.”

“Trace—”

“I have to quit dodging around this thing,” he interrupted me. He crossed his arms on his chest and pulled himself up taller.

“What thing?”

“The tension about our jobs. We're required to use information differently. There will be things I can't share with you.”

“I know. . . .”

He waved the fork in the air. “Let me get this out. I don't want our relationship to suffer because of our work. What we have is too important to me.”

My shoulders dropped a couple of notches and I audibly exhaled. “I agree. I came here to tell you the same thing. In my mind on the way over, I tossed around a dozen ways to start this conversation with you.”

He bent down, kissed my lips, and whispered, “Don't ever worry about how to approach me. Tell me what's on your mind.” He kissed me again. “And so will I. It won't be easy, you know.”

“I know. You're a cop, and I'm a nosy reporter.”

He laughed and pecked a kiss on my nose. “We can deal with this, and I don't want you worrying about how to approach me. Head on, that's the best way and that's how we'll solve our problems.” He put the steaks on a platter and said, “I'll toss the salad if you get the rolls on the table.”

We talked companionably at dinner, reaching out to touch each other. He kissed me lightly, threw back his head with laughter, and caressed my arm. Just watching him, the interplay of emotions in his eyes, the tug of his lips when he smiled, left me longing to have him in bed. By the time we stacked the plates, I sizzled with need.

Trace took my hand and wordlessly led me down the hall, his hand never leaving my own until we reached his bedroom. He spanned my waist and unzipped my skirt. The fabric pooled at my feet as he removed my bra and stroked my nipples until they were hard. He went to his knees, slipping my black thong to the floor, and then nudged me back onto the bed. Feathering kisses on my legs, tantalizing me, he moved his way up my thigh. I threw back my head, quivering with need, spreading my knees ready for his tongue. I clenched my eyes shut as he sent darts of desire through me. The pressure built until I cried out. I was panting and holding tightly to his shoulders when I came, still dazed when he sat astride me with his legs tucked close to my hips.

“You're right where I want you, nude and under me,” he whispered into my ear.

“You're wearing too many clothes.” I unbuttoned his shirt and caressed his hard nipples. He gasped and threw back his head when I slipped my hand into the waistband of his jeans. I yanked off his shirt, unbuckled his belt, and unzipped his jeans, giving me all the room I needed to push my hands between his legs and gently cup his scrotum.

“Slow down,” he growled. “I've only begun to please you.”

He groaned, wrenched his pants off, kicked them to the floor, and pushed his knees between my legs.

“Ohhh,” I gasped. “I want you in me.”

Raising my buttocks, he lifted me up to receive him, arched his back and plunged, thrusting hard and erasing everything from my mind but him. I shuddered to a climax, still trembling when he exploded inside me.