Death and Desire (3 page)

I
slept in spurts, awakening when I thought I heard noises, only to get up and pace the quiet house. I fell into a restless sleep, but jolted alert when Mac whimpered. He was standing at the edge of the bed, his ears forward and alert, and his tail down.

I slipped out of bed, crossed to him, and put my hand on his back. “What is it, boy?”

I heard the scrape of footsteps on the deck. A shadow crossed the glass door that led out from the bedroom to the yard. Dread hung in the air and fear tickled at the back of my neck. I crept to the window and pulled up one slat of the blind. A light gray fog cloaked the empty yard. It had been bone dry all day. How could there be fog? I grabbed Mac's collar and pulled him back to bed, lying there until dawn, listening for any sound out of place.

When the clock blinked five a.m., I dragged myself from bed and started the coffee. In the clear light of dawn, I shrugged the footsteps off to an overactive imagination. I took my mug out on the deck and replayed scenes from the funeral when I had locked eyes with a hot Navajo guy. His image morphed into him naked, standing bold and bronze, when my phone jangled, interrupting some exquisite mind pictures. When I untangled it from my sweat pants pocket, the display showed an Albuquerque area code. “Hello.”

“Ah, Miz McWhorter, the news reporter from KNAZ.” Detective Gutierrez let that hang, baiting a retort.

Avoiding the enticement, I questioned him, “Has there been a ruling in Niyol Notah's death?”

“Well yes, Miz McWhorter. He was murdered on the street in front of you, the reporter he was meeting,” he drawled. “Now, what do you suppose a reporter is hiding who lied at a murder scene?”

“You asked me if I knew him. I never met Niyol Notah.”

“But you had a phone conversation with him. Two days before you met in front of the diner. I'm looking at his phone records. He called your personal cell at eight a.m. two days ago. Why did he call you? And what was so important that you drove from Flag to Albuquerque to meet Niyol Notah?”

Gutierrez didn't mention the e-mails. Maybe he didn't have the hard drive yet. “Mr. Notah wouldn't tell me over the phone. I agreed to go to Albuquerque to talk with him.”

“Why not tell me the truth at the diner?”

“I was on the sidewalk by a ruined corpse before you arrived. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

“Phones still work between Albuquerque and Flag. Why make me sweat for it?” he pushed.

“I apologize. I was stunned by his murder. I don't often have a dead body at my feet. Perhaps we could start over.”

“Okay, watcha got?”

“Niyol Notah believed he was fired from Dinetah Mining because he saw them looting Anasazi grave sites.”

“Hell, McWhorter, thousands of New Mexicans have a hand digger and a brush. Pot hunting is our Sunday afternoon pastime. No one ever got run over for digging a few pots.”

“Did you find anything at Niyol's house?”

“Why would I share with you?” he jabbed.

What a pissy response! “Did you find any pictures?”

“Nah,” he relented. “His house was ransacked. Wasn't much in there, but everything he had was smashed to bits. Drawers emptied and furniture slashed open. We could barely walk through the house. He had an old desktop computer. Thing was probably worthless, but someone took the time to slip out the hard drive.”

I thought about the string of e-mails he sent me. “He sent pictures to my phone. I'll forward them to you.”

“You were fishing. Send me the pictures
now
,” Detective Gutierrez barked. “Watch your back, McWhorter. I don't think Niyol died over a bunch of old Indian pots.”

“Yeah.”

“And don't get in the way of my investigation. I expect to hear anything you find. You were the last person Niyol talked to and the last person he saw. Don't go far either.”

I parked the Rav in front of the headquarters in Tuba City. This was one of the last places Niyol visited before he died. I introduced myself to the young police officer working the desk and showed her my ID. Her badge identified her as Officer Susan Etisitty. She flashed me a perky smile. Her large breasts strained the buttons on her uniform shirt, giving me a peek of her leopard-print bra.

“Oh, a news reporter,” she gushed. “How can I help you, Ms. McWhorter?” She had to be new to the force if a reporter didn't raise the hackles on the back of her neck.

“I'd like to speak with Officer Dave Nez, please.”

“He's on patrol over in the Bitter Water area. I could call him on the radio and maybe you could meet him. You know where Bitter Water is? Over off Route 160?”

“I do.” Bitter Water covered a couple of square miles of ground with dirt roads that led to bone-jarring, dry, rocky arroyos and bills for new suspensions and alignments. I wasn't taking my Rav out there. “Here's my card. Please let Officer Nez know I stopped by. Will you ask him to contact me?”

She plucked my card from me, studying the front. “Will he know what this is about?”

“Tell him I was with Niyol Notah when he was killed.”

She leaned in close to me. “Ohhh, tell me all about that.”

Behind her, a Navajo policeman strode out of his office and frowned at her back. “May I be of help? I'm Captain Trace Yazzie.”

“Taylor McWhorter from KNAZ,” I said, extending my hand. Damn! He was the hot guy at Niyol's funeral who had me twitching with interest. His callused hand grasped mine, his dark eyes searching my face. Warmth flushed through me, and I was flummoxed at what to say.

A lazy grin flashed over his face, easing the awkwardness. “Why don't you come in for a moment?” He dropped my hand and stood aside for me to pass. I brushed against his hard chest as I slipped through his narrow doorway. My heart beat faster and a punch of lust hit my gut.

I sat in the small chair opposite his desk and tried to affect a nonchalance that belied my acute awareness of his sheer physicality.

He left the door open to Officer Etisitty's station, rounded his desk, and sat resting his forearms on the desk calendar. “I believe I saw you at Niyol Notah's funeral.”

“Yes, I remember you.”

He nodded. His smile slashed a line of white across his tanned face. A dimple creased his left cheek. “I remember you also,” he said easily. “How can I help you?”

“How did you know Niyol Notah?”

“My grandmother thought highly of him, and she's a fine judge of character.” He settled more comfortably in his chair.

When he talked about his grandmother, his voice brimmed with warmth, and I shifted from desire to admiration. But as soon as he stretched his broad shoulders, I sank back into a warm pool of yearning.

“I went to Albuquerque to meet Niyol. He wanted to talk to me about the mining company looting pottery around the mine site.”

His smile dimmed. “Did Niyol tell you he had any evidence?”

“A couple of pictures.” I fumbled out my phone and scrolled until I found them. “Here are the ones he sent me.” I passed it over to him.

Captain Yazzie stared at the tiny images and said, “Please forward them to me and we'll enlarge them.” He handed me his card and the phone.

I nodded yes. The phone was warm from the heat of his hand and I clutched it in my lap. “Niyol came here and filed a report with Officer Nez,” I said crisply.

Captain Yazzie's head jerked back in surprise. He drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, straightened his shoulders, and said, “I'll talk with Nez.”

“Niyol claimed that a man in a truck with a Flagstaff license plate frame took off with the pottery.”

“You think Niyol was killed because of what he saw?”

“I think so. Dinetah fired him after he took that picture. He was too scared to come back to Flag and meet me.”

“Could be.” He leaned back in his swivel chair. “The investigation of Niyol's death is the jurisdiction of the Albuquerque police, but I'll stay in touch with them. Niyol Notah was one of ours. Have you thought about your own safety?” He cocked his head to one side. “Anything on his stolen hard drive that could lead the killer to you?”

So, Albuquerque PD had told him about the hard drive. “E-mails. I'm watching my back.”

“I'm available to you also, Ms. McWhorter. Don't hesitate to call. I'll see to it that Officer Nez contacts you after I speak with him. Please feel free to stop by if I can help in any way.”

“Taylor, please.”

“Taylor.” My name rolled out on his rich baritone. He stood.

My outstretched hand disappeared in his. He stood a fraction too close to me, inside my space, taking up all the air around me. The single dimple on his left side deepened with his grin. I blushed when I realized I was still holding his hand.

“Call me Trace. I'm sure we'll see each other again.”

“Sure.” I hoped I didn't sound as school girlish as I felt. Damn, this was embarrassing. He was a tribal cop, and this was business.

When I stepped out of the office, Officer Etisitty stood there fingering some typed pages. The doorway to Captain Yazzie's office was open and she was well within hearing range. She reddened when I spoke to her, “Do you have a police report on a recent one-car crash? A single driver, male, who died. I know he worked for Dinetah, but I don't know his name.”

“That was Sani Begay, left behind a wife and a couple of grown kids.”

“Could I have a copy of the accident report, please?”

“Sure thing.” She pulled a slim folder off her desk and ran the contents through the copy machine. “He was drunker than a skunk. Car reeked of alcohol. Why are you interested?”

“He was Niyol's coworker.”

Her mouth formed a moue of displeasure.

Behind me, the front door banged shut and a voice boomed, “Hiya, babe. Can I take you to an early lunch?”

I turned to see a young Border Patrol officer striding to Officer Etisitty's desk. I looked back at her, and she sported a beaming smile. Her eyes locked on his and I became invisible to both of them. He leaned over her desk and popped a kiss on her lips. “Let's go, babe.”

“Babe” giggled. “Let's try that new place over on Main and Third.” She grabbed her purse and hooked arms with him as they walked out past me.

When I got to the parking lot, he was holding the passenger-side door for her. She scooted over as far as she could without crowding him out the driver's door. I was certain sitting on that cup holder was damned uncomfortable.

I drove the deserted strip of asphalt that connected Tuba City and the station in Flagstaff thinking of Trace Yazzie. My body hadn't stirred at the touch of man in a long time. Damn, he was hot, and those hands, my God, those hands. I could imagine what they could do to a woman's body. That grin of his—I hoped he didn't know I was lusting.

The Phoenix NPR station was playing some esoteric music that sounded like Peruvian harp plucking. I punched the radio off, leaving only the rushing sound of the car as it sped over the flat highway. No cars were in sight on this lonely patch of road.

A sense of dread and doom shrouded me like last night. But I had dreamed those footsteps, I scoffed. I checked my rearview and side mirrors. No sign of life. But the hair on the back of my neck stood up in anticipation. Nothing. Except the stirring of the reptilian presence in my brain, that primitive, primeval core tasked with keeping me alive. I had learned to pay attention when the reptile slithered.

No!
I caught a flicker of movement out the driver's side window, a dark shape half crouched behind a greasewood bush. I blinked and it was gone. I was losing it. I shook my head to clear the vision.