Death and Desire (7 page)

I drove to the county road, trying to convince myself that I had seen a real coyote and had driven through a sand storm made more violent by the narrow walls funneling the wind.

B
y the time I was on the highway back to Flag, my heart rate had settled and I was pushing long, easy blows of breath. I argued with myself about whether or not to talk to Trace about my experience. No, not now, maybe later. He wanted to meet with me, and he had his own agenda. Besides, it was only a freak wind storm.

I almost believed myself by the time I parked in front of the restaurant.

I weaved my way past a pierced and tatted teen pushing a broom across the Galaxy's floor. Trace pulled out a chair for me and sat down opposite. “The pie is really good here. Want some to go with your coffee?”

“Sure. Any suggestions?”

“I'm a pie aficionado,” he said.

He had a sensuous, generous mouth and I imagined licking cream pie from his bottom lip.

“Can't beat the chocolate cream,” he said as the waitress sauntered up to the table.

“Tra-a-ace.” When she said his name, it had three syllables. “I've missed you. Thought you didn't love me anymore.” She trailed a proprietary hand down his arm.

“Been real busy.” Trace leaned away from her touch, staring up at her.

“Knew you couldn't stay away from me for long. Want chocolate cream pie with your coffee?” She showed a crooked incisor when she smiled.

“You must be a regular here,” I said to Trace.

“Yeah.” He shifted his attention back to Maggie. “Make that two coffees and two chocolate cream pies.”

Maggie twitched her little ass back to the counter.

“You and Maggie good friends?” I asked when Maggie had disappeared to place our order.

“I like this table back here. It's Maggie's station.” He shrugged those big shoulders. “I eat most of my meals here. Don't really enjoy cooking for myself.”

“I know about that. Every time I move into some place, I look in all the closets and under the beds and never find a cook.”

He laughed uproariously. “I cook pretty well. I just don't like to eat alone.” His eyes twinkled. “Maybe I could teach you a thing or two about cooking, and it would be good enough to eat.”

My mind zoomed immediately to a new fantasy—this sexy hunk standing behind me, arms around my body, hands on mine, teaching me to whip eggs. What was I thinking? Whip eggs? There was some electric gadget that did that work for you.

I gave him my best lazy, sexy, I'm-cool-with-that grin. “I'm sure I'd be a quick learner.”

Maggie returned with a pot of coffee and two cups. “Pie will be up in a minute.” She patted Trace's check as she left.

“Friendly, isn't she?”

“That's just her way.”

Maggie returned with the pie. Trace leaned an exaggerated length away as she sat the food down in front of him. “Just crook your finger if you need anything.”

“Sure thing,” Trace said to her back.

“Like the pie?” He motioned at me with his fork.

“Absolutely yummy.”

“Then let's talk about Niyol's murder.”

Instantly he had my attention. “What about his murder?”

“Detective Gutierrez has Niyol's e-mails.” He gave me his best cop look, unwavering eye contact and alert face. “He also has his phone records. He's pretty upset you didn't tell him about all your communication with Niyol.”

My fork stopped midway to my mouth. Did Gutierrez know about the financial records?

“I can read your face. Must have been more. Want to tell me what else you got?”

“You're right about the pie. Delicious.”

Trace blew out his breath and leaned back in the booth, bracing his hands on the table. “You can play it your way, but you don't know the kind of people you're dealing with. Did it ever occur to you that you could have put Grandmother in danger by going out there? You could have led Niyol's killer right to her.”

I studied him for a moment. His jaw clenched and his eyes locked on mine. I wasn't going to tell him about the financial docs until I talked with Gage
.
“I'm sorry. Can you get your grandmother to move out of the canyon for a while?”

“No. She is the last of the Bear Clan people living on our land. She won't leave the canyon. Grandfather is buried there and so is my mother.”

“Is your Dad alive? Can he stay with her?”

“She is my
maternal
grandmother. The Dine is a matrilineal society.” He softened the lecture with a small engaging smile. “The son-in-law has very little contact with his mother-in-law.”

I shook my head in exasperation. “I didn't mean to put her in any danger. I don't think I'm that vulnerable. Pot hunters don't usually go on murder sprees.” I expected him to agree with the logic in that answer.

“Maybe they are more than a bunch of pot hunters.”

“Okay. Point taken. Thank you.” What the hell did he know that I didn't?

I fiddled with my paper napkin making a pile of little shredded strips in my lap.

“Is that what you do when you're doing your heavy thinking?”

His rugged good looks and air of authority had the power to make me trust him, to feel compassion as well as desire. “Yanaha saw the Dinetah guys digging in the pit houses, looting graves. They could have seen her watching them.”

“I know. She told me last week.”

“Then you knew she was in danger before I went to see her.” I pointed my finger at him. “Yet, you guilt trip me about endangering an old woman.” I was speaking rapidly, my voice racing up an octave.

“I pointed out the danger of you being followed.” He ran his hand through his unruly shock of dark hair. “I handled that badly. I'm concerned for Grandmother's safety and yours. No guilt trip intended.” He held up both hands to ward off more words. “I didn't mean to offend you. She likes you, and I know she invited you to visit her. But I'm concerned for both of you.”

“No offense taken,” I said, ratcheting down my emotions.

“Navajos believe touching a grave site is taboo and that evil comes to those who do.”

“I'm not breaking that taboo, and neither is Yanaha.”

“Of course not. But Yanaha has seen evil in the canyon and the three of us have now spoken of it. Navajo believe talking of evil summons the spirit to you.”

“Do you?”

“I am Navajo,” he answered simply.

“I can't wrap my head around spirits.”

“I believe in what I can see and what I can't see.” He shrugged. “I believe in the Christian Holy Spirit and also in the Navajo healing ceremonies for those touched by evil.”

He accepted the duality and dichotomy of good and evil beyond where my boundaries lay. I hesitated for a moment. “I believe in the Holy Spirit. But I find it hard to believe evil spirits are out and about. I just can't accept it. What did you mean by Yanaha has seen evil in the canyon?”

“She has seen a shapeshifter on the ridge line.” He stared at me.

I sat silently.
Tell or don't tell him? No. Don't
. Everything I'd seen could be explained away logically. I didn't see a shapeshifter. I had a lively imagination. My mother said so when I was a kid.

He broke the silence. “Perhaps you would like to see a Navajo healing ceremony? Grandmother and I are going to an Enemy Way ceremony for a buddy of mine, Ben Kedah. He's just returned from his second tour in Afghanistan. Navajos who come home from war receive a blessing to free them from spirits of the dead. Grandmother would enjoy your company.”

Opportunity had just offered me face time with a healer. One thought badgered me. His grandmother would enjoy my company. Would he?

His mouth quirked. “I would enjoy your company, too.”

That earned him a small smile. “If I wanted a blessing, would I be able to talk to the person conducting Ben's ceremony?”

“Sure. I think he would consider that.”

I could tell he was curious and wanted to ask why I wanted a blessing, but too polite and restrained by his culture to ask any questions.

“I'll hear from you then.” I rose. “Thanks for the coffee and pie.” I weaved my way back through the tables to the door of the Galaxy. I wanted to look over my shoulder to see if he was watching me. I'd spent a lot of time trail running to sculpt my ass, and it probably looked the best it ever would.

 

Louis was sitting at his desk, staring through the viewfinder, as he played back his footage. He hit pause when I asked, “Got a minute?”

“I was getting worried. You've been gone a long time,” he said reproachfully.

“Took longer than I thought. But we hit the jackpot. Yanaha has seen the miners digging into the pit houses.”

“I don't suppose she just happened to get video of them wrestling out a big pot?”

“No, but we might.” I told him Yanaha's tale of tormenting Chindi.

“You get that blessing?” he asked.

“Working on it.”

M
ac was sleeping on the back deck when I stepped out of the garage into the backyard. He shot to his feet, barking furiously before he recognized me. “Good boy, fella.” He sat obediently, waiting for the treat he knew he deserved.

I carried my gun-cleaning kit into the den, snapped on the television, and pulled the soft rag through the barrel of my .38 while I watched a bunch of people compete for the title of Biggest Loser. I buffed the gun to a deep shine and zipped it back into its case. Mac cocked his head, giving me his puzzled doggy look.

“You're a good watchdog, boy.” He inched closer and licked my hand. “But we may need a bit more.”

Mac and I went into the bedroom and I lay in bed, watching the red numbers crawl forward on the clock. He was snoring quietly on the rug at the foot of the bed. I thought of Trace, his intelligent brown eyes and quick grin. And his ass—oh my, what an ass that man had. I sighed and amused myself by imagining us in a kitchen, cooking up our own heat.

I must have fallen asleep because Mac's low growl woke me. He was standing, staring at the bedroom's French doors that lead out to the deck. He lowered his head, rumbling deep in his throat. I slid off the bed to the floor and grabbed the gun from the nightstand drawer. Mac started to bark wildly and rushed to the doors. I heard scraping sounds on the deck. Cold fear raised the hair on the back of my neck. I crept to the door and lifted one slat in the blinds. Sweat dripped down my back as I stood in the dark house, peering out onto the deck bathed by the bright porch light I burned every night.

A fat raccoon waddled into the pool of light and squatted on his haunches, squinting at me. Mac was barking wildly. “Mac, come here.” He ran to me expectantly. “Shush, good boy.” I grabbed his collar and pulled him to me. The raccoon turned his back on us and his fat rear wobbled as he ambled off. I laughed aloud in relief as I watched his furry cheeks jiggle up and down as he descended the deck stairs. Mac looked up at me in doggy disappointment that I wouldn't let him give chase. “You earned your keep, big guy.” He took his place on the rug.

I tossed and turned until I gave up and made coffee at five. With a nice shot of caffeine and dawn coming in the east, I started thinking instead of feeling. Someone believed I had something incriminating, and they wanted to scare or hurt me. Neither idea was comforting. As to the red-eyed beasts, I didn't know what the hell was going on. I had seen more coyotes in the last thirty-six hours than I ever had. However, I was fairly certain no self-respecting witch had shapeshifted into last night's fat raccoon. I showered and got dressed for work.

I waited until eight to call Gage Notah, but it went directly to his voice mail. He either screened his calls, or there was a no personal business policy at Dinetah. I drove into work planning what I needed to get done, including talk to the expert at NAU and see Dr. Garcia. Perhaps I could squeeze in a visit with my contact in the engineering department.

 

I circled the visitor's parking lot three times before I beat out a Chevy truck for the last spot. Dr. Alison Garcia asked me to meet her in her office in the museum on the second floor of the Anthropology building. I hoofed it past a frat house with a line of garish boxers drying on the balcony. A frat boy chugging a beer hooted his appreciation as I walked by. I shrugged. Maybe the extra few miles I had added to my run had been worth it after all.

“Good morning, Taylor.” Dr. Garcia walked briskly around a display case. The chic, young professor had a reputation as one of the best Anasazi pottery experts in the southwest. “Let's get comfortable in my office.”

I followed her silk blouse and tight little wool skirt into an office cluttered with stacks of books and papers. A small microscope with a shard of pottery under the lens sat on the corner of the desk.

I ogled her Manolo Blahnik shoes, the first real pair I'd seen. I'd drooled over the Web site, but on the foot, they were much more desirable. “I'd like to shoot video of our interview and the museum. I'll need your consent.”

She nodded. I pushed record, said the date, and asked, “I'm here with Dr. Alison Garcia in the museum at NAU. Do you agree to a video interview?”

“Of course. What can I help you with this morning?”

“Tell me about pot hunters.”

She grimaced. “I guess you've heard the stories of people growing up hunting pots as a Sunday afternoon family time? I've been in locals' houses that have bookshelves full of pottery they've handed down from one generation to the next.”

“You sound sympathetic.”

“No, of course not,” she snapped. “I'm just saying plenty of people pot hunt.” She ran a hand through her short bob. “It's theft. Plain and simple. The Archeological Resources Act defines removing any artifacts from BLM land or native land as theft.” She sat primly, crossing one of those killer shoes over her ankle. She probably couldn't risk a leg cross with a skirt that short.

“Why aren't the police arresting people?”

“Lack of manpower.” Weary lines creased her face. “The Bureau of Land Management is responsible for over fifty-five million acres out here. Less than five percent has been surveyed. You know what that means?”

“Tell me.”

“We don't even know what's out there.” She waved an arm at the window. “There may be Anasazi sites as large as Mesa Verde hidden by thousands of years of dust. Looters dig holes and spread the dirt on the surface, scattering pottery chips across the ground. They destroy the integrity of the site,” she huffed. “When we study a site, we seine all the dirt from a hole, study the layers in the earth, and document the history in each layer. We take years to study a site. When looters trash a site, the history is lost forever.”

I wanted to pull her to the topic of selling on the black market. “How do pot hunters find a buyer on the black market?”

“Unfortunately, it's not that hard. There are Web sites that auction off artifacts. There are plenty of pawnshops who do a brisk business in Anasazi funeral goods, and there is a network of private collectors. No provenance required by the seller.” She wrinkled her nose as if she smelled the stink of a sulfur pit.

“Some intact pottery can sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars in parts of Asia. It's tempting, just too tempting, for people to stay out of the burial sites.” She tapped her French manicure on the desktop.

“Why don't the Feds close down the Web sites and auction houses?”

“They do. New Web sites pop up the next day. As far as the physical auction houses, it's really a painstaking process to prove the provenance of a piece, so they don't bother. They just take cash. Plenty of eager private collectors out there want no record of a cash sale.” She swept her arm at the rows of display cases. I turned the camera and panned the cases filled with ancient pottery. “All these pieces were legally obtained. Museums require certificates of authenticity. The black market buys and sells anything.” She gave a helpless shrug.

“Do you know of any auction houses dealing in stolen Anasazi artifacts ?”

“Sure. There's a place in Phoenix called AAA Indian Appraisal and Auction.”

“Have you been there?”

“Yeah, I went and saw an auction. It sickened me. They were auctioning bone fragments, amulets, bone tools, even ancient desiccated corncobs. People walked out carrying bits and pieces of Native American heritage.”

“But they wouldn't dig up your Grandma to steal her broach, would they?”

A wry smile played on her lips. “People don't see it that way. Generations of families have collected together. But it is a problem! Stealing another peoples' heritage is racist. Pot hunters destroy Native Americans' history and disrespect their culture.”

 

Walking toward the engineering department, I decided I liked Alison Garcia. People with a passion for their work drew me to them. One good thing about working in a university town—there was an expert in almost every field housed on campus. Environmental engineer, Dr. James Hebron, had left a dayglow-yellow Post-it on his office door apologizing for missing me due to a student's dissertation committee meeting. He asked me to call him tomorrow.