Dance of the Bones (15 page)

Sick with relief, Lani leaned against the passenger door. Gradually her legs seemed to give way beneath her. She slid slowly down onto her haunches until she was sitting propped on the Tundra's narrow running board.

Leo came around to where she was sitting. “Sorry,” he said. “He's a teenager and a boy. I shouldn't have blamed you. Come on. Let's get back.”

Lani stood up and tossed her own pack into the truck. “There's one more thing we need to do,” she said when she again felt capable of speech.

“What's that?”

“I want to stop by the charco.”

“What charco?” Leo asked.

“That one,” she said, nodding down the mountainside.

“Rattlesnake Skull?” he asked. “How come? ­People say that place is haunted.”

Lani knew that all too well, and one of the haunting spirits was no doubt the soul of Gabe's murdered second cousin, Gina Antone, but Lani didn't feel like going into any of that right then.

“It'll only take a few minutes,” she said. “I'm curious about something.”

“Don't they always say curiosity killed the cat?” Leo said, letting go of his anger and giving her one of his easy grins.

“Maybe so,” Lani said. “But I still want to go. You can stay in the truck if you want. I can hike in and out.”

“And let you call me a 'fraidy cat?” Leo replied. “No way.”

When they neared the charco, Lani directed him to drive past the turnoff and stop on the shoulder of the road.

As they climbed out of the truck, Leo shot her a questioning look. “What's going on?” he asked. “You look like something's wrong.”

“I'm not sure,” Lani said. “Let's wait and see. I want to follow the tracks.”

Lani had picked up some skill as a tracker from her husband, who had learned that ancient art from his grandfather Micah. Using what Dan had taught her, Lani walked along the road until she saw a place where a single set of tire tracks led off into the brush. A few feet beyond that, she saw evidence of what looked like a struggle and signs of several ­people walking off into the brush.

“We'll go this way,” she said, “but stay to the side of the tire tracks and of the footprints, too.”

Just then a shadow passed overhead. Lani looked skyward and saw a single buzzard circling high above them. The morning sun may have been warm, but a chill passed through her body. Having Nuwiopa show up at a time like this was always a bad sign. Buzzards meant death, and the bodies weren't hard to find.

They lay just beyond a parked blue Jeep Cherokee, one Lani suspected might belong to one of the José brothers. The two victims were clearly male. Both bodies had been shredded by bullets. Their hands were bound in front of them with tie wraps, and their heads were covered by paper grocery bags. Both were secured to the base of a nearby cottonwood tree by lengths of cable that looked like those used to lock down bicycles.

Once Lani spotted the bodies, there was no reason to go any closer. It was clear from the cloud of swarming flies that both victims were dead. She stopped in her tracks so abruptly that Leo literally plowed into her from behind. He grabbed her with both arms to keep her from pitching forward and then was startled when she turned in his arms, buried her head in his ample chest, and wept. They stood like that for several moments, with Leo awkwardly patting her shoulder and trying to comfort her.

Leo probably thought Lani was horrified at being confronted by those two bloodied and mangled bodies, but that wasn't it at all. She was weeping in gratitude because neither of the dead victims was Gabe. He was home and safe. Right then, that was all that mattered.

At last she straightened up, wiping her nose and eyes on her shirtsleeve. “I'm okay now,” she said.

Letting go of her, Leo started toward the bodies.

“No,” she said, grasping his arm. “Leave them.”

“But shouldn't we at least check on them?”

Lani shook her head. “This is a crime scene,” she said. “I can see from here that they're both dead. There's nothing we can do for them, except call the cops.”

 

CHAPTER 14

BIG MAN AND HIS FRIENDS
came to the house. They called out to the brother, and he came out. Everybody aimed their arrows at him, but as the arrows flew, Brother jumped in the air. None of the arrows hit him. The ­people laughed at him and asked him where his feathers were. They told him he should have wings.

But when Brother came back to earth, the ­people noticed that the earth trembled under his feet. Three times the ­people shot their arrows at Brother, and three times, when he came down, the ground shook.

The fourth time the ­people shot their arrows, Brother jumped into the sky, but this time he did not come down.

And so,
nawoj,
my friend, when you are in the land of the Desert ­People and look toward the Eastern Sky early in the morning, you will see Beautiful Girl, smiling at you from the sky. The Tohono O
'
odham call her Mahsig Hu
'
u
—­
Morning Star.

And sometimes
—­
not often
—­
when you feel the earth tremble, the Milgahn
—­
the Anglos
—­
may call it an earthquake, but you and I will know that it is only Beautiful Girl
'
s brother who has come back to visit.

WHEN BRANDON WALKER OPENED HIS
eyes, Diana was standing in the doorway of the bedroom with a cup of coffee in hand. “Up and at 'em, lazybones,” she said. “You said you'd be driving Miss Daisy today, and if we want to get to the Second Street garage in time to find a parking place, you'd better get a move on.”

Brandon turned over and stared blearily at the clock. It said 8:30.

“What time's your first panel?”

“Ten of the A.M., so we need to head out soon.”

Brandon scrambled out of bed, shaved, showered, and dressed. As he slipped his car keys into his jacket pocket—­the same jacket he'd worn to the dinner the night before—­his fingers encountered the business card Oliver Glassman had given him. Brandon pulled it out and looked at it. He had spent the better part of the night mulling over his own involvement with John Lassiter. Before he got any more deeply involved and before he brought TLC into play, he needed a whole lot more information.

Dropping the card back into his pocket, he went to the kitchen in search of a second cup of coffee.

“By the way,” Diana said, “my publicist flew in last night. She'll be meeting us at the first venue, and she's willing to hang with me all day. So if you feel like doing something else instead of showing up at all the panels and signings, that would be fine, as long as you're close enough to come get me when I'm done.”

“You're sure you don't mind?”

“Not at all,” Diana said with a laugh. “You go to enough of these events that you could probably do a credible job of answering all the questions I'm likely to be asked. So go do whatever you need to do. Consider it your reward for showing up for the cattle call last night.”

“Fair enough,” Brandon agreed. “Sounds good.”

Even though he was only dropping Diana off, getting to the campus was still a challenge. Traffic on Speedway was gridlocked with ­people trying to turn into the campus while herds of pedestrians, oblivious to the lights, blocked the way. Brandon drove into the bookstore turnaround with bare minutes to spare before Diana's first scheduled appearance.

“I'll pick you up right here whenever you call,” he said. With an unexpected free day ahead of him, Brandon headed for the Arizona Inn to treat himself to a leisurely breakfast. Knowing he might need to use the phone, he asked for his food to be served in the bar.

While waiting, he pulled out Ollie Junior's card. Glassman the younger was a defense attorney. Clients who found themselves in the clink would need to be able to reach him. Brandon read through the list of phone numbers on the card and dialed the one listed as a cell. Not surprisingly, he was routed to an answering ser­vice, but at least it was a living, breathing person rather than a machine.

Brandon told the woman who he was and why he was calling. Oliver Glassman Junior called him back before Brandon finished the last bite of his whole wheat toast.

“I'm surprised you called,” Oliver Glassman Junior said. “When John Lassiter said he wanted to talk to you, I didn't figure he had a chance in hell.”

“He may not still,” Brandon answered. “Before I go wading into any of this, Mr. Glassman, I want some information.”

“Call me Junior. What kind of information do you have in mind?”

“If you can talk to me about this without violating client confidentiality, please tell me what exactly Justice for All came up with,” Brandon requested. “They must have found something serious, or they wouldn't have been able to negotiate a deal.”

“Don't worry about the confidentiality issue,” Junior answered. “I have John Lassiter's signed permission to bring you on board. As to what they found? Prosecutorial misconduct.”

“What kind?”

“It turns out the prosecutor had a prior relationship with one of the prosecution witnesses. He should have recused himself, but he didn't.”

“Which witness?” Brandon asked. “And what kind of relationship?”

“A woman named Ava Hanover, at least that was her name at the time of John Lassiter's first trial, but she's Ava Richland now. Back in the day, while she was still Ava Martin and working for an escort ser­vice, she and a newbie prosecutor named Eric Tuttle had a little extramarital fling. He was married at the time. She wasn't. Years later, when Ava's name came up on the witness list in the case, Tuttle should have recused himself—­both times—­but he didn't.”

At the time of John Lassiter's trials, Brandon had found it puzzling that the prosecutor had gone for broke both times. Brandon was, after all, the primary investigator on the case—­the lead detective for much of it by virtue of being the only detective. The evidence, such as it was, was entirely circumstantial. To his way of thinking, Lassiter should have been charged with second-­degree homicide rather than murder in the first degree. Now it all made sense, because by the time John Lassiter went to trial, Eric Tuttle had been the duly elected county attorney.

“All this happened a long time ago. How exactly did Justice for All find out about it?” Brandon asked.

“They do data mining, at least that's how Rosalie Whittier explained it to me.”

“Who's Rosalie Whittier?”

“JFA's lead attorney on the John Lassiter case. Somehow JFA tracked down a long out-­of-­print book called
Lawmen Gone Bad
. Hardly anybody's read it—­had a print run of five hundred copies or so—­but it's a tell-­all book about a previous sheriff, a guy named DuShane. Ever hear of him?”

Brandon Walker remembered Jack DuShane, all right. Sheriff DuShane had been as corrupt as they come. He still remembered the bumper stickers that had blossomed around town at the time.
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL
SHERIFF,
they said.
GET A MASS
AGE.
That may have been a joke, but unfortunately, it was also all too true. DuShane's involvement with the massage parlor/escort ser­vice industry was one of the things that had finally propelled Brandon into running for office against the man and eventually defeating him.

“I know the name well,” Brandon said aloud. “DuShane was my boss at one time, but I never heard about the book. You say it's a tell-­all?”

“I haven't seen it, but that's what I'm told.”

“Why haven't I heard about it, then? A book exposing Jack DuShane's carryings-­on should have been big news around here.”

“That's what makes all this so interesting,” Junior said. “As far as I can tell, the book never saw the light of day. The entire first printing was sold to what was most likely a single buyer who destroyed all the copies.”

“What single buyer?”

“No ID on the buyer, but I have a pretty good idea of who it might have been.”

So did Brandon Walker. Most likely Sheriff DuShane himself, now retired and living the good life in Palm Springs.

“At any rate, there was never a second printing,” Junior continued. “Word is, the author made a good piece of change by just going away and keeping his mouth shut.”

“Not blackmail, then,” Brandon suggested. “More like hush money.”

“Correct.”

“How did JFA find a copy?”

“Somebody gave them access to an uncorrected proof. Don't ask me how, but they did, and that's where they came up with the connection between Ava Martin and Eric Tuttle. He wasn't the county attorney at the time, but he and DuShane were evidently good buds.”

Who played poker together for years,
Brandon thought. If there had ever been a doubt in Brandon's mind about looking into John Lassiter's case, that was the moment it went away.

“Okay,” Brandon said aloud, “based on all that, JFA comes in and negotiates a deal that, as I understand it, Lassiter no longer wants.”

“He never wanted it to begin with,” Junior said. “And he isn't the one who brought JFA into the deal. The person responsible for that would be his daughter, Amanda Wasser.”

“Back then I had no idea he had a daughter.”

“His girlfriend was expecting at the time he was arrested. The baby was born right after he went to prison for life without. He signed away his parental rights, and the mother gave the baby up for adoption at birth. Amanda had a health issue in her late twenties and came looking for her biological parents. By the time she did that, her birth mother was dead and you already know about John.”

“This daughter, Amanda Wasser, where is she?”

“Right here in Tucson. Turns out she's lived here all her life. She works for the university—­at the library, I believe. She's probably off this week since it's spring break, but I doubt she's out of town. I don't believe she travels very much. As I said, she has health issues.”

“What kind of health issues?”

“The same thing her father has—­MS. I understand it's hereditary.”

“Do you have a phone number for her?”

“Sure thing. Let me find it.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“In a condo development off Speedway on the far side of Wilmot, the one with the dying golf course.”

It took a few moments before Junior dug up Amanda's address and phone number. “Thanks,” Brandon said. “Now, could you do one more thing?”

“What's that?”

“Let John Lassiter know that I'll try to come see him, if not tomorrow then maybe the next day.”

“Good-­o,” Junior Glassman replied. “I'll get a message through to him right away. I'm sure he'll be glad to hear you're on board.”

SITTING IN LEO'S TRUCK, LANI
dialed 911. After that, it was simply a matter of seeing who would arrive first, Law and Order—­the tribal police—­or someone from the Pima County Sheriff's Department. While they waited, Lani held her phone for a time, dreading and delaying the call she needed to make. Finally she pressed the button.

“Good morning,” Dan Pardee said cheerfully. “We're having breakfast and wondering when we'd hear from you. Since the cat's away, I made blueberry pancakes. Tell Mom how you like them.”

“Yummy,” she heard Micah crow in the background.

Lani sighed. This was not a conversation she could have on speaker with Angie and Micah hanging on her every word.

“I need to talk to you in private.”

“Sure,” Dan said. “Just a sec.” Lani heard the legs of his chair scrape on the floor. Then a moment later, a door slammed.

“I'm outside now,” he said, turning off the speaker. “I can tell from your voice that something's wrong. What is it?”

“Gabe is fine, and so am I,” she said hurriedly, “but there was a shooting down by Rattlesnake Skull charco early this morning. It woke me up. When Leo came to get me, I had him stop and check. We found two dead men lying by the charco. Right now we're waiting for the cops to arrive.”

“Wait,” Dan said. “You said Leo came to pick you up. Where's Gabe?”

“We had an argument,” Lani admitted. “He stormed off the mountain, but don't worry. He's okay.”

“Don't worry? Are you kidding? This whole campout idea was all about helping him, and you're telling me the little shit went off and left you out there on your own?”

Hearing the anger in Dan's voice, Lani glanced toward Leo, who was sitting stolidly in the driver's seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“It was fine,” Lani said, grateful her phone wasn't on speaker, either. “I'm fine.”

An uncomfortable silence passed between Lani and Dan. The next admission would be the worst one, because of Dan's words of warning the day before.

“The bad guys were firing automatic weapons,” she said finally. “I had my Glock, but up against whatever they were firing, it wouldn't have been any more effective than a slingshot. You have every right to say I told you so, and plenty of reason to rub my nose in it all you want.”

There was another period of silence before Dan asked, “Any idea who the victims are?”

“We found a vehicle that might belong to one of the José boys, but Leo and I backed off without getting close enough to examine the bodies. Both victims had grocery bags over their heads.”

“Figures,” Dan muttered. “I heard Max was involved in some kind of smuggling operation.”

A cloud of dust bloomed farther down the road as a vehicle turned off the highway and sped toward them, red lights flashing.

“Gotta go,” Lani said hurriedly. “The cops just showed up. I don't know how long I'll be.”