Dark Reservations (13 page)

“Who the hell is she?” she asked.

Joe turned.

A short, heavyset woman strode toward them, snapping photos on her phone.

Joe advanced on the woman.

“Who are you, ma'am?” he said, putting himself between her and the remains. Bluehorse appeared next to Joe.

The woman offered a great big smile. “Is this where you all found Congressman Edgerton's vehicle?” She raised her hand to her mouth. “Oh my. Is that his body?”

Joe wasn't fooled.

“Who are you, ma'am?”

She held out a business card.

The card read
Helena Newridge, Journalist, Washington Post.
It looked like it had been printed at home.

Before he mentioned the cheap stock, she said, “I'm waiting for my new cards. Political desk reporter.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Do you have any other ID?”

She reached in a small purse that hung under her right arm and pulled out a driver's license and handed it to him.

It showed a D.C. address. He handed it back to her.

“I need to ask you to delete those photos,” he said.

“Now you know I can't do that.” She actually batted her eyes at him.

“Let's walk back to the road, ma'am.”

“While I'm here,” she said, trying to step around Joe, “I may as well—”

Joe moved his body in front of hers. “I can't let you do that, ma'am.”

“Why? Is this a crime scene?”

“I can't answer that.”

She lost her smile. “Then there's really no reason for me to walk back with you, is there?”

They stared at each other.

“Look, you can either cooperate and I can make sure you get all the information we give to the press, or you can be difficult and I make sure you're cut out. I'm really not that hard to work with, ma'am.”

“Oh, stop with the ‘ma'am' crap. My name's Helena.” She held out a hand.

Joe shook it.

“So is this the site or not?”

Someone had already told her this was the place, or else she wouldn't have come.

“Let's start walking and I'll answer what I can.”

Joe called to Andi. “I'm going to accompany this young lady back to her vehicle.”

“Young lady?” Helena said. “Aren't you the charmer.”

“Where did you park?”

“On the road.”

Joe had Bluehorse lead them back through the woods to Jones Ranch Road.

“So, who are you?” she asked.

“Joe Evers, I'm with the BIA out of Albuquerque. If we talk, you can't quote me or reference me as a source with the BIA. Deal?”

“Deal. So is this where they found Edgerton's vehicle?”

“Yes. Will you delete those photos?”

“No. Whose body is that?”

“Can't say. How did you find this place?”

“Sorry, can't say. Did those dogs find the body?”

“Sorry, can't say. Are you working a particular angle for a story?”

“Good question,” she said. “Not yet. Are you working a particular angle on your investigation?”

“Not yet. What do you plan to do with those photos?”

“Stupid question, Joe. You know I don't need your confirmation that you found a body to use them.”

“I know. But like I said, if you want first crack at our information, then you need to play ball.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what does that mean?”

“I'd prefer not to have those pictures in the paper.”

“Why?”

“They make us look stupid. You got too close to the scene. And photos are dangerous for undercover work.”

“Undercover? Ain't that stretching it?”

“You asked. And it's a real concern.”

“And what do I get if I hold back?”

“There's something you don't know about what you saw back there. Knowing that something won't make you look stupid. And I'll answer some questions as a bonus.”

“I need a photo.”

“What if I show you where the vehicle was found. No one's gotten that yet. We towed the vehicle, but you can get a location shot. There's some junk debris on the ground and oil stains. With the right lighting, it can be made to look quite grisly.”

She thought about it a moment. “You know the way to a woman's heart, don't you? But I still have to write about the body.”

“Fine, but without a photo of my team.”

“Okay. Now what don't I know?”

“This is the Navajo Nation. They don't always bury their dead in cemeteries. That body may be totally unrelated to the Edgerton case. It might have been what we call a ‘ceremonial burial.'”

“But you're going to call me first when you identify the body, right?”

Joe's head nodded even though his mind recoiled at the thought of tipping off a major newspaper.

S
EPTEMBER
28

T
UESDAY
, 5:59
P.M.

M
ICKEY
'
S
B
AR
& G
RILL
, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO

Joe walked into Mickey's, still wearing the same clothes from the body recovery. Not the best impression for a first date. Was this a date? He wasn't sure. He considered the thought, then corrected himself. Of course, it was a date. His stomach churned. Nerves. Guilt. A little of both maybe.

They had cleared the scene by four o'clock and sent the remains to the New Mexico Office of the Medical Investigator, referred to by law enforcement as OMI. The body had no identification, but despite what he'd told the reporter, it did not look in any way like a Navajo ceremonial burial. After a quick debrief with the team, Joe had raced back to Albuquerque, knowing he would be late. He'd called ahead to Mickey. Now, standing by the entryway, he wished he'd had time to go home and change. A little aftershave would have been nice, too.

He made his way to the quiet rear of the dining area and saw Gillian sitting at a table, a candle at its center, casting soft shadows on the wall behind her. Had Mickey dimmed the lights more than usual? He was, undeniably, a virtuoso at creating an uncomfortable situation.

“Hi, Joe!” chimed two voices in unison.

Sue and Linda sat at the bar, waving, Mickey behind them at the counter, also waving. All three were sporting big grins. Their watchful eyes transported Joe back to fourth grade, to a field trip to Rocket's Roller Rink, with its giant disco ball hanging from the ceiling, and the overhead speakers delivering a mix of funk and love songs. But now a slow song was playing. And he was that ten-year-old awkward boy again, hoping that Kristin, the girl he'd had a crush on since second grade, would allow him to hold her hand for the four laps it would take while the Jackson 5 promised “I'll be there.” The memory was so real, he expected to see Mrs. Rubino, his fourth-grade homeroom teacher—and tonight's spiritual chaperone—sitting behind Gillian, telling him to sit up straight and stop daydreaming.

Gillian turned upon hearing her friends' greeting and now watched Joe approach. The look on her face made him think she might actually be glad to see him.

“Sorry I'm late. It really was unavoidable.”

“No problem. I had Mickey to keep me company, as well as Linda and Sue, who kept telling me that I was being stood up.” She said this with a gleam in her eye. Joe guessed she might have enjoyed the attention.

She continued, “Oh, and Mickey is quite your wingman. He told me you were in Gallup busting a terrorist cell and had to brief the president. He called you a ‘man of duty.' Nice title. Is that on your business card?”

“No. But I did cut that briefing short. I told him I had a very important dinner engagement. The president tends to get a little testy, so he may try to call me back.” Joe made a show of pressing the power button on his phone. “There. No interruptions … unless, of course, you'd like to say hi to him. If so, I'll call him back.” He held up the phone, waiting for her reply.

She sat there a moment, a tiny smile frozen on her face. Had he gone too far with the joke? It'd been stupid, but he'd meant it to be playful. Now she'd be wondering if he was a moron.

Then she laughed. “You had me for a second.” She held up her right hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together. “Just an itsy-bitsy second. You said it so seriously.” She laughed again and raised her glass, holding it above the table. The red wine matched her ruby-colored dress. It covered her shoulders and contrasted nicely with her blond hair. He didn't know if she had tried for sexy, but she'd pulled it off.

Joe gave his drink order, a red wine, to the waitress. Then the expected get-to-know-each-other session started. They discussed their jobs and family. Joe avoided talking about Christine. When the topic arose, he simply said she'd died two years ago. He found himself bragging about Melissa. Gillian did the parent thing, too, and told Joe about her daughter and son, both at college. She spoke very little of her ex, though, which made Joe wonder if their breakup was still, in her mind, unsettled. Mickey came over, white towel draped over his forearm, and served warm bread and a Caesar salad. He also took a jab at the president for making Joe tardy. Gillian laughed. When he left, silence fell over the table for the first time.

Joe reached for his wineglass; his ring finger and pinkie shook. He looked at Gillian. She wasn't paying attention to his hand. He didn't feel nervous. Their banter had put him at ease. She'd been easy to talk to. Enjoyable, actually. Was he having the shakes? He couldn't tell. He wasn't an alcoholic, was he? At that moment, he didn't know the answer. He picked up his water glass instead.

“Did you grow up in Albuquerque?” Gillian asked.

“Air force brat. Moved around. Born in California. My father was stationed at Edwards. Later we moved to New Jersey, Kansas, Guam, then New Mexico, where he retired.”

“Wow. All that moving around, experiencing all those new places.” She sighed. “I've spent my entire life in Albuquerque.”

“To be honest, they all seem the same to me now. Just school and regular kid stuff everywhere, except for Guam. A tropical island is pretty exciting to a kid. Lots of poverty, but incredible beaches. We'd go diving and grab a lobster and cook it up right there on the beach.”

“Sounds like a little piece of paradise.”

“It was. I really love the ocean. I'm surprised I stayed in New Mexico.”

“Not me. I saw
Jaws
when I was a kid. Been afraid of the water ever since. We went to San Diego one year and my father carried me into the ocean and dropped me right into a wave. I screamed so loud, the lifeguard blew his whistle and told my father to take me out. Never been in it since.”

Before Joe could reply, Mickey returned with their food. He laid out a family-style dish of penne alla vodka, a small bowl of grated Parmesan cheese, and a plate of Italian sausage.

“You're both gonna enjoy this. And even if you don't,
you're both gonna enjoy this,
” Mickey said, his voice deep and slow.

Joe cringed. “Was that supposed to be the Godfather?”

Mickey lifted his head and rubbed the back of his hand under his chin. “
Someday, and that day may never come, I'll call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day—accept this meal as a gift.
”

“You outdid yourself tonight, Mickey,” Joe said.

Gillian clapped; Joe followed. “Bravo!” she said.

“Now, this old man will get outta your hair so you two birds can create some beautiful magic together. Ciao.”

Their host walked off to tend the bar.

Joe served the pasta.

A man's voice spoke. “And who is this lovely young lady?”

Joe held the pasta suspended over Gillian's plate. His jaw tightened, as did his hand holding the serving spoon. Cordelli approached the table, Tenny following like a good puppy. Joe emptied the spoon onto Gillian's plate before answering.

Joe introduced Gillian.

“You never mentioned you were seeing someone,” Cordelli said.

Joe forced a jovial tone. “Sorry, Dad. I forgot to ask permission to borrow the car.”

Tenny laughed.

Cordelli smiled. It actually looked good-natured.

“I only thought you might have mentioned her in the office.”

Gillian spoke to Joe. “I'm glad this is our first time out; otherwise, you would've hurt my feelings. A woman likes to be thought about
and
talked about, nicely, of course.”

“Joe's the quiet type,” Cordelli said. “Strong and silent, just like in the movies.”

She looked at Joe and smiled. “Well, he's not that quiet tonight. He's rather funny.”

“We don't want to intrude on you two. Enjoy your dinner.”

Cordelli and Tenny walked over to the bar.

“That seemed … odd,” Gillian said.

“They are odd.”

She blushed. “They brought something up that I wasn't quite sure how to talk about.”

He felt a tingle in his stomach. It wasn't hunger. He reached for his wineglass, took a sip. A gulp. The first of the night.

She went on. “Back in June, after nineteen years of marriage, my husband told me he needed to find himself.” She picked up her wine and sipped. Then she placed her glass back on the table and met his gaze. “He left, and now I'm lost. I'm not looking for another relationship. At least not right now.” She lowered her head and spoke to the pasta. “You seem like a really nice guy, but I'm not ready for that yet.”

He waited for her to continue, but she didn't.

“Is that all? I thought it was something serious, like you don't like vodka sauce.”

She laughed and looked back up at him.

He continued, “I'm just glad not to be eating alone. Let's enjoy the evening. No pressure. No promises. No expectations. Fair enough?”