Grave Danger (22 page)

She glanced at the lone woman officer of the group, who smiled when Libby caught her eye. Well, at least there was one cop besides Mark who didn’t think she’d been crying wolf.

For the next hour, conversation flowed across the table as the cops and archaeologists traded stories. The novelty of having a new crowd to hang out with might save Libby’s crew from the coming factionalism. The fact that the new friends were cops meant Libby wouldn’t spend her nights worrying the crew was out drinking with no plan to get home. It would be a refreshing change as most field crews consumed enormous amounts of alcohol. The only way to ensure that no one drank and drove was when the project took place in a remote area that required camping. Then the trick was to get from the campfire to the tent without breaking a leg.

After they finished their meal, Mark took her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

Pleasure mixed with a small amount of dread. She’d have to tell him about the box she’d opened today. She looked to Simone, who’d driven her to the bar. Simone waved her off. “Just remember socks don’t count.”

Libby laughed. In college they had shared a rule: when dating someone new, one had to keep two items of clothing on at all times. Of course, it was just one of many rules Libby adhered to and Simone circumvented with ingenuity. Good thing for Libby she’d been paying attention and knew exactly how to get around the old rule.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she climbed into Mark’s car.

“For a drive.”

She leaned back in her seat, not willing to tell him about the box yet. She wanted time alone with him. As he drove, she told him stories about the history of Coho and about the Thorpe and Warren families. Nearly one-third of Kalahwamish tribal members had the last name Warren and the rest were related to a Warren. Family history was tribal history.

“I’ve noticed you generally say ‘Indian,’ not ‘Native American.’ Isn’t Native American the current correct term?” Mark asked.

“In my reports, I use the term Native American. It’s clearer than ‘indigenous peoples’ or ‘hunter-fisher-gatherers’ or whatever is currently being promoted. In writing, I have to be politically correct. But in speech I use the word Indian, because that’s what most Indians call themselves. I’ve never heard an Indian say, ‘a Native American friend of mine…’ or ‘a descendant of hunter-fisher-gatherers I know….’ The Indians I know prefer the term Indian.”

“Why did you become an archaeologist?”

“I’ve always loved history and archaeology. When I was a sophomore in college, I suddenly realized that I wanted to study what interested me the most—not necessarily what could get me the best job or even
a
job.”

“Your parents must have been thrilled,” he laughed.

“I put myself through school. My dad wasn’t around much, but he was a history buff. Whenever he showed up—and I’m talking about after at least a two- or three-year absence—he would bring lots of gifts to try to buy us off. Not normal children’s gifts, but biographies, history books, things like that. I devoured them. I don’t know if I was trying to please him—hoping he’d stick around if we appreciated what he’d brought us—or if I read them because I was genuinely interested in the subject matter. Somewhere along the way I got hooked.” She left unsaid Simone’s theory that she went into archaeology to win her father’s approval.

“I had a harder time convincing my brother and sister that archaeology was a good major—we’ve always taken care of one another. And I’ve always been able to support myself. My sister the journalism major can’t say that.” She paused, realizing she didn’t know anything about his family. “I’m the oldest of three. What about you?”

“I have two sisters. I’m the oldest.”

“Were you the bossy older brother type or the protective kind?”

“They’re five and seven years younger than me, so I was protective—I still am. But I was pretty bossy, too. I was in Seattle by the time they were in high school, so I wasn’t able to be as protective as I wanted to be.”

“Did you use your police uniform to intimidate their dates?”

“As often as I could.”

“And cleaned your gun in front of them?”

“Only once. I
really
didn’t like the guy my sister was dating.”

He turned off the main roadway and onto a narrow state park access road. He parked near the beach and shut off the engine. “Let’s walk.”

As she walked toward the rocky beach, she was glad she’d chosen to wear the linen dress. Straight and slender with buttons down the front, the dress made her feel feminine every time the soft fabric brushed against her legs. The sensation intensified in his presence, proving her theory that things you liked were even better in the company of someone you were attracted to.

They crossed the beach to the water’s edge. The tide was high and still coming in. Tiny waves lapped the shore. They strolled along the water’s edge in silence. At the far end of the beach, she picked up a stick and stirred the water to see the bioluminescence. Glowing tendrils flashed in the swirling liquid.

Mark’s hands slid over her hips. She dropped the stick and turned in his arms. The late July Pacific Northwest twilight cast him in sepia colors. His intent look made her belly flutter. She found it difficult to breathe.

He slowly smiled.

“That smile should be made illegal.”

His dimple deepened and he kissed her with a confidence that turned her on as much as his lips did. She twisted her fingers in his hair in matching rhythm to the hot strokes of his tongue.

He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers. “I’ve got a problem. I’m working on an extremely important murder investigation, yet you’re all I want to think about. You’re hell on my work schedule.”

Her lips trailed along his cheek. She nipped his earlobe. “I’m having the same problem.”

“I want you to know, I don’t play around. I’m not seeing anyone else.”

“I don’t, and I’m not, either.”

“Good. Now, I need to know something almost as important…” He deftly unbuttoned the top three buttons of her dress. The cool evening air hit bare skin, causing her nipples to harden even more underneath her purple satin bra.

“Purple. Just as I suspected.”

She grinned. “You should be a detective.”

“Smart ass.” He reached out and cupped a breast in each hand, rubbing his thumbs over the satin bra that hid her aching nipples from view. He kissed the rounded flesh above the cups. His hands slipped down her sides to hold her steady as his mouth moved ever closer to the satin of her bra. She pulled his face back to hers and kissed him hot and hard on the mouth.

She ended the kiss and glanced around the deserted beach. “Isn’t this the sort of thing you ticket people for?”

“This is a state park—not city. None of my people patrol here.” He buttoned up her dress. “Now I’m tormented by a new question. Does your underwear match?”

She smiled and gathered the skirt of her dress with her fingertips, pulling the fabric up inch by slow inch. Before the hem reached the top of her thighs, he took her hands and placed them on his chest. She could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat. “I have to get up early tomorrow, and I still don’t want to rush our first time together.”

“Okay. Tomorrow night. Six o’clock.”

“Wear red.” He kissed her again, softly this time, and then entwined his fingers with hers and resumed walking the beach.

A euphoric mood enveloped her. This was the feeling people sought when experimenting with drugs, the highest of natural highs.

“How is your report coming?” Mark asked.

Libby came crashing back to earth. She’d forgotten about the box. She had to tell him. “I got a lot done today. Angela’s research is vital. My report will be based entirely on her work.” His hand tightened around hers.

“I told you to leave Angela’s boxes alone.”

“You didn’t tell me I couldn’t photocopy the pages of research I’d already found.”

“I didn’t say that, but I should have. There could be fingerprints on those pages.” He dropped her hand.

“As I was making copies of the transcripts of her oral interviews, I realized that I hadn’t found any of the tapes. Those tapes could become the cornerstone of my report—publishable accounts of Lyle Montgomery’s treatment of the tribe. They could give Rosalie what she wants so the Corps won’t block Jack’s permit.” She paused. “I needed those tapes.”

He took a step away from her. “You opened the boxes.”

“Only one box. I could hear the tapes inside when I shook it.”

“Dammit, Libby!” He turned away and walked faster toward his car. “Don’t you know what this means? You were tampering with potential evidence. You could have destroyed a clue that would have led me to the killer.”

She ran to keep up with him. “The stuff in those boxes would have been gone through by the police in 1979. What makes you think there could be a clue in them now?”

He swung around and faced her. His eyes were cold. “Are your archaeological methods the same now as they were in 1979? Did you use ground penetrating radar back then?”

“No.” Her heart sank.

“There have been changes in police work, too. We can lift fingerprints from surfaces that we couldn’t before—including better technology for lifting from paper. And the technology for breaking apart audio recordings is worlds ahead of what it was then. Those tapes could be vital.”

“All I’ve done is copy them. How does that hurt your evidence?”

“You opened the box and played the tape. It could be argued you tampered with it, altered the contents.”

“All I did was copy it. I was given those boxes by Jack and Jason for the purpose of going through them to find what I need to write my report.”

“You opened a box after I asked you not to.”

“The boxes were mine to go through. If you think they’re so important, why didn’t you take them yesterday?”

“Because I trusted you. That was a mistake.”

She felt his words as the slap he’d intended. “For all I know, the bones we found could be someone else. If she isn’t Angela, then this whole thing isn’t an issue. You yourself said we only know when she disappeared; we don’t know if she’s even dead.”

“Don’t split hairs, Libby. We both know you guessed the identity of the victim. I don’t have DNA yet, but the dental records indicate a match. Don’t you want Angela’s killer to be found?”

“Of course I do. But Rosalie Warren specifically asked me to use Angela’s research for my report. She wants closure, or maybe vindication for the tribe. I can’t give that to her without Angela’s notes. Many of the people Angela interviewed are dead now.”

“So what Rosalie wants trumps justice for Angela?”

“I didn’t say that, and I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive. I’m not doing this just for Rosalie. It’s for Coho.”

“You can tell yourself that, but really you’re doing it for your own business and reputation.”

“Of course the business comes into it, but that’s not my only reason. I wouldn’t sacrifice justice for Angela for the sake of my job, and I don’t believe I have.” Tears of frustration threatened her composure. This was going so much worse than she’d imagined. “If I’d opened that box yesterday, you would have no right to question my actions.”

“But you didn’t open it yesterday, did you?”

“No.”

“How many boxes are left unopened, three?”

She nodded.

“I’m taking them.” He opened his car door and climbed inside.

She opened the passenger door. “Can you do that without a warrant?”

“If I have reason to believe evidence will be lost or destroyed, I can seize it now and get a warrant later. It’s called exigent circumstances. I should have taken them yesterday. I won’t make that mistake again. Get in.”

“Maybe my research will help your investigation.” She knew she was grasping but wanted to find common ground.

“Get in the car, Libby.”

She continued to stand in the open door. “I know her subject, and I know the history of the property where she was found.”

“The property belongs to Jack. That tells me plenty.”

“Listen. How Jack came to own that particular parcel of land could be important.”

“Then get in the car and tell me.”

She climbed in.

Twilight had ended and it was now fully dark. The car’s headlights illuminated only the narrow dirt road that cut through the forest. The world felt small, enclosed. Anger radiated from Mark in waves.

“In 1857, the Kalahwamish signed a treaty with the US government, which set up the current reservation,” she began. “One Indian family refused to move to the reservation and remained on a parcel of land just outside the boundaries—land that the ancestors had occupied for thousands of years. White settlers harassed them, but they didn’t give up. Eventually the land was granted to them. Other provisions in the treaty weren’t enforced, so the tribe essentially got nothing. The Kalahwamish were forced to give up their language, the potlatch, their religion. In return, they got a small reservation and a promise that the whites would stop trying to kill them. They were granted fishing rights that they are still—one hundred fifty years later—having to fight to retain.”

“Get to the point.”

“The land that one Kalahwamish family fought to keep was passed on, eventually going to George Warren. In 1976, George sold five hundred acres to Jack and Angela Caruthers. But there’s no explanation why George sold a white couple that land, when there weren’t plans for the property at the time of the sale. When I asked Jack why he bought the land, he said Angela wanted it. She never told him why.”

She had his attention now. “Even more curious is that George Warren absolutely hated the Montgomery family. The mill store had a sign in the windows until 1970 that said ‘No Credit for Indians—Do Not Even Ask.’ Lyle would follow Indians around his store as if they were thieves. Why on earth would George Warren sell his sacred land to Lyle’s granddaughter?”

“The answer isn’t so George could bury Angela in it several years later. Don’t waste my time. I’m taking those boxes.”

“Dammit, Mark! You can have the boxes, but listen. Last week, I found out Angela was an anthropologist. Jack never mentioned her studies. Whenever someone finds out what I do for a living, they
immediately
tell me about anyone they know in the same or similar profession. If their cousin’s friend’s brother’s godson is a paleontologist, I’m expected to be his drinking buddy. But Jack forgets to tell me that his
wife
was an anthropologist? And, even more strange, she was working on a dissertation on the Kalahwamish—the very tribe associated with the site. So Jack doesn’t know why Angela wanted the land and he didn’t see the significance of what she was studying to the Cultural Center dig? That seems odd to me.