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Cover Page
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Copyright
JULIE MILLER attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.
For my dad. Ace navigator extraordinaire.
The most knowledgeable man I know when it comes to learning about a place and finding my way.
Yep, there’s double entendre there.
While Sleeping Ute Mountain and the Four Corners area of southwestern Colorado are real, full of stark beauty and dramatic landscapes, I’ve taken the liberty of creating some fictional places to serve the needs of the story. So if you do visit the area—and if you’re a fan of history or geography I strongly encourage you to do so—you might not find all of the locations Ethan and Joanna visit on the map. But you will find friendly people and a beautiful part of the country.
“I need you to disappear.”
Sherman Watts drained the amber fire of whiskey from his shot glass and licked the dribble from his lips before putting the phone back to his ear and responding to his anonymous contact’s hushed command. “What about my money?”
“You’ve gone through last month’s payment already?”
It wasn’t this loser’s business how he spent his money or how fast he spent it. He’d earned a lot more than this secure cell phone he’d been given so their calls about confidential business couldn’t be traced. “I was promised fifty thousand. Your people are ten grand short.”
“I can deposit the installment into your account on Monday—under the guise of another government settlement payment. You know I can’t authorize the payment any earlier than that. If I pay out the money too fast, it’ll throw up a red flag, and someone might start nosing around in our business.”
Someone else, you mean. Since the Kenner County Crime Unit and a cadre of FBI agents had come to Kenner City, Colorado, and the nearby Ute reservation where Sherman lived, investigating the murder of a lady agent who’d been messing with some people she ought not to have been messing with, there had been plenty of people nosing around. Funny how the man on the phone wasn’t afraid of the hit man Sherman had been hiding on the rez and doing some odd jobs for. Funnier still how the man trying to give him orders could deal with two feuding Las Vegas crime families and keep a cool head, but he had a burr up his butt over the possibility of some accountant questioning why Sherman Watts finally had the money to buy a good bottle of whiskey instead of drinking the rotgut that had curdled his conscience years ago.
Sherman poured himself a second glass to wash down the bologna sandwich he’d eaten for lunch. “I’m perfectly comfortable here in Mesa Ridge.” He took a sip and savored the smooth burn down his throat. “Besides, I thought it was my job to be the front man. Nobody knows the rez like I do. I can wander around any corner of it, talk to any man about anything and nobody blinks twice. I run Boyd Perkins’s errands and get the information he needs so he can continue his search for that fifty million dollars from the Del Gardo family and take care of whatever private business he needs to. Hell, I’m doing such a good job that I hear the cops think Perkins is down in Mexico.” Sherman plunked the glass down on the table in his trailer and sat up straight. Had something happened? This idiot might not be afraid of Boyd Perkins, but he was smart enough to know that crossing the ice-cold killer was a damn fool thing to do. He’d seen what Perkins was capable of when he’d disposed of that woman’s body for him. Screwing up and getting on the killer’s bad side was not an option. “They think Perkins has left the country, right?”
“They have no clue he’s still around.”
“So what’s the problem? Why do I need to skip town? And why isn’t this coming from Perkins himself?”
“I’m doing you a favor, you coot. Giving you a heads-up.”
He could tell from the condescending sneer in the man’s tone that this wasn’t about doing anybody a favor.
This guy was worried about covering his own backside.
“The FBI thinks you’re involved in Julie Grainger’s murder.”
“The feds do?” Accomplice after the fact was definitely involved. He was screwed. Sherman pushed to his feet, stumbling over his chair as he went to the back of his trailer to grab a bag and start packing.
“The feds, the crime unit—they’re all one team now. And they think you may know something. They’re bringing in some hotshot profiler from D.C. to question you.”
“What?”
“One of their own agents is dead. They may not have evidence to charge you with anything, but they’re going to explore every possible lead on the case. And right now, that’s you.”
Screw that. He pulled his gun from his top dresser drawer and tucked it into the back of his jeans. Two boxes of bullets landed in the bottom of his pack. “Who else are they questioning?”
“No one. Like I said, they don’t know that Perkins is still in the neighborhood. But with the way you get around to every bar, whorehouse and the casino, I’m sure they want to ask if you’ve seen anyone matching his description.”
Sherman dropped his bag back onto the bed. These past six months working for the Nicky Wayne crime family out of Vegas had given him the best money ticket of his life. He wasn’t going to give it up if the feds just wanted to show him some pictures and ask if he knew a guy. “I can always say no. They’ve got nothing they can hold me on. You’re just worried that I’ll mention these phone calls, and then they’ll figure out they have a traitor in their midst.”
The lengthy pause indicated that Sherman had struck a nerve. “You’ve got nothing on me. No name. No ID. But can you still say no when the detox kicks in? Can you keep your mouth shut about Perkins? About Grainger’s murder? Do you really want to take the fall for our crimes? This is a federal investigator they’re bringing in, Watts, not some good ol’ boy sheriff who’ll give you a sip from his own flask and let you walk away. I hear she’s tough. She’ll break you.”
“She?” He took the news like a punch to the gut.
Hell. It was a woman who had turned him to drink in the first place. Some woman or other always seemed to be standing in the way of what he deserved. His high school sweetheart, Naomi, had married his best friend, Ralph Kuchu, instead of him. Eighteen years later, Naomi had been drunk enough to get herself and Ralph both killed in a car wreck—taking the woman Sherman loved and the money Ralph owed him to their graves.
Women were good for one thing. Sobering him up and poking questions at him wasn’t it.
And if she did flash her boobs or nag him enough and get him to reveal what he knew about Julie Grainger’s murder or Boyd Perkins’s whereabouts, then he’d be a dead man. He was only useful to Perkins and the family he worked for as long as he kept his mouth shut.
“All right. I can hide out for a few days.” Sherman carried his bag out to the table and packed the whiskey bottle in with a change of socks and some fishing gear. He grabbed his sleeping bag from the closet and tied it to his pack. “Let Perkins and Mr. Wayne know that I’m out of here.”
After disconnecting the call, Sherman opened the trailer door and studied the sky. Clouds were gathering with the promise of spring rain in the next twenty-four hours, give or take. That was good. It’d be hell to sleep in, as the temperature in the mountains was still cold on June nights. But rain also meant he wouldn’t leave any tracks. He reached for his black, flat-brimmed hat and pulled it on over scraggly hair that was still as black as it had been the day he was born over fifty years ago. With his survival skills, he could last for weeks up in the red rocks and cliffs of the Mesa Verde range.
He could last as long as he had something to drink.
And no woman got in his way.
Special Agent Joanna Rhodes stepped off the puddle jumper flight from Durango into the rain at Kenner City, Colorado.
Though the other two passengers on the same plane made a dash for the shelter of the terminal, Joanna stood on the tarmac, surveying the stark, dramatic landscape of red rock mountains and barren desert spaces of the Four Corners region of the state. Awe-inspiring. Rich in history and mystique. Majestic. She’d read all the descriptors in tourism magazines and advertisements for the nearby casino.
But she couldn’t see the beauty. She could barely feel the cool drizzle of rain spitting against her face. An oppressive sense of the world closing in around her, so at odds with the rugged, wide-open spaces, made it difficult to catch her breath.
“Suck it up, girl,” Joanna whispered between clenched teeth, her nostrils flaring as she pulled her shoulders back and ordered her lungs to expand. It wasn’t the altitude or the faint chill of early spring in the air that had grabbed hold of her. It wasn’t the rain, kicking up a familiar, omnipresent dust and washing the scent of ozone down to her level, that made moving from this spot so difficult. It was the memories swirling inside her head, attacking her from every direction, that made this homecoming feel like a walk down a long corridor at a maximum-security prison, ending at a windowless cell with her name on it.
“That’s the power of positive thinking,” she chided herself with sarcasm, hating that her thoughts had gone off on the morbid metaphor. Fanciful images of any kind didn’t fit with the practical, efficient persona she’d worked so hard to cultivate. This wasn’t supposed to be a stroll down memory lane for her. “Focus on the work.”
She was here to break open a case that the bureau, local law enforcement and the Kenner County Crime Lab had been investigating for five months now. Solve the murder of a federal agent in the area and uncover suspected links to the feuding Wayne and Del Gardo crime families out of Las Vegas. Find a lead on the missing fifty million dollars that the late crime boss, Vincent Del Gardo, had allegedly hid in the Four Corners area.
All she had to do was face down a nightmare from her past to get the answers they needed.
No small task on any front.
This was her assignment. She’d been personally requested by the Durango bureau office because of her ethnic background and ties to the area. Her boss in D.C. had assured her it was a career-making opportunity she’d be foolish to pass up. Besides, a job was a job. And she was damn good at hers.
Blinking the moisture from her long dark eyelashes, Joanna checked the Glock 9 mm in the holster on her belt, as well as the FBI shield clipped beside it. Then she rebuttoned her pin-striped blazer and shook her ponytail down the center of her back.
“Piece of cake.” Armed inside and out, she pulled up the handle on her overnight suitcase and strode toward the terminal.
“Agent Rhodes?” The glass double doors swung open and a tall, lanky man wearing a tuxedo with a cowboy hat and boots jogged out to meet her.
Instinctively, she halted and retreated half a step, her hand hovering near her gun, waiting for the man to identify himself.
“Didn’t see you inside and thought I’d missed you. Sorry I’m running late. I had to pick up my wife and son and give away a bride before I could get here.” He stopped a few feet away and tipped the brim of his hat before extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Patrick Martinez.”
“Joanna Rhodes.” Recognizing the name and the general description of dark hair and Irish-blue eyes given her by the bureau chief in Durango, Jerry Ortiz, she reached out to shake hands with the Kenner County sheriff. “You’re not late, Sheriff. But I’d like to remind you that I could just as easily have rented a car and driven myself to your office.”
He grinned. “Well, that wouldn’t say very much for western hospitality, now, would it.”
Knowing she was meant to smile at the friendly remark, she curved her mouth into a practiced arc. But when he reached for the handle of her suitcase, Joanna tightened her grip. Long before she’d reached the age of thirty-three, she’d learned to take care of herself in every way that mattered. “I’ve got it.”
With a nod, he turned to walk beside her. “Then let’s get you out of the rain and get you briefed on the investigation.” Despite her show of independence, his longer stride got him to the doors first, and he pulled one open for her. He glanced up at the late afternoon’s overcast sky as she walked through. “We’re expecting storms on and off all weekend long. This little sprinkle is just the prelude.”
She remembered the all or nothing weather patterns from her childhood. Summers could be beastly hot and dry, yet still be chilly at night. Winters were frigid, especially up in the mountains. And the transitional seasons in between promised torrential rains and flash floods, or blizzards, depending on the temperature. The area was probably going through its spring thaw right now, when massive snowmelts at the higher elevations filled the rivers and streams in the area—the same streambeds that would be bone dry come autumn. But she wasn’t here to reminisce or discuss the weather. “How far are we from your office? I understand it shares a building with the crime unit?”
Once they cleared the terminal, the sheriff pointed to the officially marked black Suburban parked at the curb. With a beep from his key chain, he opened the back door behind the passenger seat. “You can toss your bag in here.”
“Thank you.”
His cowboy-style manners were charming but unnecessary. And once they were both inside the car, he seemed to accept that she was more interested in answers than in making new friends. “We’ve got a smoothly integrated system here in Kenner County. Budget constraints being what they are, the practicality of housing the area law enforcement units in one location made it a no-brainer. A briefing room, locker rooms, executive offices, plus the interview rooms, lineup room and temporary lockup are located on the first two floors, while most of the crime lab is housed upstairs on the third. We’ve got a fourth floor for storage.” He shifted into Drive and pulled onto the highway leading into town. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Through the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers, Joanna watched the landscape change from scrub brush to the metal prefab buildings of a growing industrial park. They passed a neat and tidy residential area nestled in the foothills, filled with square, pueblo-style houses, bungalows and larger Victorian reproduction homes. Finally, Sheriff Martinez turned his car toward the brick and stone buildings that marked the downtown area. Kenner City was a quaint, bustling enterprise of a town, nestled in a bowl between mountain peaks. It boasted striped awnings and pinewood balconies, and flags flew above nearly every storefront and business.
Not one trailer park in sight. No run-down liquor store on the main drag. No tattered teenage girl running the streets, looking for her parents in seedy bars and back alleys, hoping they’d be happy drunk and cooperate with her efforts to get them safely home, instead of mean drunk and belligerent, or just flat passed out from whatever party or paycheck they’d drunk their way through on any given night.
Everything here was charming and well kept and scrupulously clean—a far cry from the Ute reservation where she’d grown up, just a few more miles down the road.
She knew she was expected to say something, to make conversation to pass the drive time. But Joanna had made a career out of watching and assessing before she spoke, learning to listen without saying more than was required. Even before her training, idle chitchat had never come easily for her.
The sheriff didn’t seem to have that problem, however. “The hotel where you’re booked is just a block from our location, and I figured you’d be doing your interview of the suspect there. If you do want to go somewhere, one of my deputies will be available to drive you. Or we can loan you a vehicle if it’s not in use.” He slowed as they drove through the heart of downtown, touching his hat to pedestrians hurrying along the wide sidewalks. As they passed the last few businesses, he pointed out a diner-style restaurant with bright lights and lots of windows called the Morning Ray Café. “That’s my mom’s place. You can get all three meals there. It’s good, down-home cookin’ that’ll fill you up.”
The gleam of pride was obvious in his tone and smile. Joanna’s mother’s idea of a home-cooked meal had involved ripping open packages and zapping them in the microwave—when she remembered to fix any meal at all for her daughter. Joanna had turned herself into a fairly accomplished cook by the time she’d finished the third grade, simply as a matter of survival. But the lack of three square meals a day growing up had been the least of her problems.
The sheriff reached across the seat and tapped her elbow to pull her attention from her thoughts. He pointed to an imposing building with a gray brick and white stone facade on the corner at the end of the street. “There’s your hotel. Used to be a mining office, but now it’s completely remodeled inside. Want to check in first?”
Alarmed to realize her thoughts kept drifting to the past instead of focusing squarely on her present assignment, Joanna resolutely straightened in her seat. “Let’s go directly to your office. I want to familiarize myself with my surroundings before I meet the suspect I’m interrogating.”
“You want the home field advantage?” he teased.
“Something like that.” They had almost driven out of the far edge of town before Joanna spotted the rambling four-story building with signs that read Kenner City Sheriff and Kenner County Crime Unit. “I read the file from Supervisor Ortiz, but I’d like to get your take on things since you’ve worked more closely on Agent Grainger’s murder. What can you tell me about your suspect, Sherman Watts?”
Good. She got the name out without so much as a stutter of hesitation.
Focus on the job, Joanna. Watts is just a job.
“He’s a local troublemaker. Been convicted and jailed on any number of petty crimes—mostly drunk and disorderly, a couple of assaults.”
“A-assault?” That was a definite hesitation.
But Martinez, fortunately, didn’t pick up on the way she stiffened in her seat. He pulled into a slanted parking space in front of the building. “When Watts is drunk, he can get mean.”
So some things never changed in Kenner County. “You don’t have him in custody?”
“We suspect he’s been doing odd jobs for the Nicky Wayne crime family out of Vegas, like helping Wayne’s hit man, Boyd Perkins, hide out in the area. However, what we believe and what we can prove are two different things. That’s why he’s still a free man. But he’s definitely a person of interest we’ve been watching. Could be he had nothing to do with the murder, and he’s only funneling information to them—someone sure seems to be.”
She’d heard about the information leaks that had dogged the investigation, seeming to give Boyd Perkins—the man reputed to have killed mob boss Vincent Del Gardo, as well as the bureau’s chief suspect in Agent Grainger’s murder—a heads-up when to go into hiding or carry out another attack. “How do you want me to direct my interrogation? Confirm the source of the security leak? Find out if Perkins is still in the area and pinpoint his location? Or should I concentrate on Watts himself, and tie him to Boyd Perkins and Agent Grainger’s murder so you can make an arrest?”
“Anything you can get out of him. I don’t make him for premeditated murder—I’d be surprised if he has the backbone for that. But I wouldn’t put it past him to hurt someone if he felt threatened.”
She didn’t need to read the Kenner County Crime Unit—KCCU, according to her mission brief—report to know his assessement of Sherman Watts was on the money. Drunk or sober—if that ever happened—the fifty-eight-year-old Indian was as dangerous and unpredictable as a badger. If he got cornered, he was just as likely to turn and attack as he was to skulk away into some hole. If he felt he was entitled to something, he’d take it—as long as he thought he could get away with it. And damn to anyone who tried to stop him.
“You owe me, bitch.”
With her face smashed down into the bed and his heavy weight on top of her, Joanna’s screams were muffled. The wool lint from the blankets filtered into her nose and mouth with each gasp, and she could scarcely breathe.
He’d hit her hard enough, too, to make the room spin. But the pain was clear, the humiliation intense. Oh, God, it hurt. Right down to her soul, it hurt.
Son of a bitch. Joanna jerked her mind back to the rain and the sheriff and the present, and forced herself to breathe. So she had a little extra insight into Sherman Watts and how his mind worked. That’s what criminal profiling was all about, right? Knowing the truth about the suspect—knowing his secrets—could only help her get this interview done more quickly and efficiently.
Joanna pried her fingers off the armrest to unbuckle her seat belt. She breathed deeply, clearly, in through her nose and out through her mouth, more determined than ever to leave the past in the past so she could help Martinez and his people deal with the present. “Is there any hard evidence to connect Watts to Julie Grainger’s murder? Any motive?”
Either unaware of her momentary discomfort, or politely ignoring it, the sheriff continued. “We know that Agent Grainger was on the trail of fifty million dollars that crime boss Vincent Del Gardo hid in the area. If she found it, or had a clue on her that would lead to its location, then that’s fifty million reasons why just about anybody would want to kill her. One of our lab teams found a leather necklace that we believe belonged to Watts at the site where her body was dumped. That puts him at the scene—before or after her death, though, we don’t know.”
“You think Watts has the fifty mil?”
“No. Someone’s still looking for it, or the attacks would have stopped.” Martinez muttered a curse, clearly frustrated with the lack of closure on the case. His eyes were clear glacial-blue when they locked on to hers. “Sherman Watts is a survivor. He’ll do whatever it takes to stay alive and stay one step ahead of us. There was a time when Watts would pick a fight at one of the local bars, just so he could spend a warm night in jail. Now he’s living in a new trailer on the rez and drinking name-brand booze. He claims his money is from an inheritance. I haven’t been able to prove otherwise.”
“You don’t believe him.”
He shook his head. “Nicky Wayne and his family have laundered enough money that they could make it look as if Watts’s income is from a legitimate source. If they’re funding him, Watts may be uncatchable right now.”
Letting Watts get away with aiding and abetting, theft, murder—or God knew what—wasn’t going to happen. Never again. “I’ll get him in a room and get him to talk. I’ll find out what he knows.”
Martinez nodded, believing the strength of her words. “I’ve sent a couple of men out to the reservation to bring him in for questioning.”
She waved aside the offer of an umbrella, retrieved her bag and followed him inside.
He nodded to the security guard reading a newspaper at the front desk and led Joanna past him to a reception area at the center of a suite of offices. “Anybody home?” Martinez hollered. He removed his hat and knocked it against his leg before brushing away the moisture beading on the shoulders of his black tux jacket. “Elizabeth?”
Joanna frowned, smoothing the damp hair around her face as she surveyed the executive office area and the hallways, elevator and doors branching off in either direction. “I was led to believe this was a fully staffed facility. Where is everyone?”
“Like I said, we had a wedding this afternoon. Our chief forensic scientist, Dr. Calista MacBride, married Tom Ryan. Tom’s been with us as an FBI investigator almost from the day I first saw Julie Grainger’s body. I guess the two of them went through the academy together—Tom and Julie, that is. I think Tom and Callie were, uh…friends, if you know what I mean, even before the murder brought them back together.” He turned toward the locker rooms and staff entrance at the end of the hall. “Elizabeth? You here yet?”
Joanna noted the name plate on the high front counter at the center of the carpeted waiting area. She dismissed the sudden chill of remembrance as the rain trickled down the back of her scalp. This Tom and Callie weren’t the only old friends to be reunited by this case. “Elizabeth Reddawn is your receptionist?”
The sheriff set his hat on the counter beside the nameplate. “You know her?”
“Old friend” wasn’t exactly the right term. Joanna’s parents, Ralph and Naomi, had alienated most of the decent people she knew by the time they’d died in a drunk-driving accident when she was eighteen. And once Joanna had left for college and her career, she’d never looked back. Until now. Yet there were bound to be harder memories to face than this one. She would handle them all. Supervisor Ortiz and her boss back in Washington, D.C., were counting on her. “I grew up on the rez over in Mesa Ridge. Elizabeth worked for the reservation sheriff back then.”
“Elmer Watts?”
Probably the man Martinez had replaced when the county and reservation units had merged. Sherman Watts’s uncle. Joanna nodded.
Elizabeth had been the only one in that office who’d really listened to Joanna when she’d needed their help. But as a lowly secretary, Elizabeth Reddawn had been as powerless as Joanna had been. And the resulting pity she’d offered had been no help at all.
“Then this will be a reunion of sorts for you.”
“I suppose.”
Martinez gestured toward the door marked Sheriff. “Let me make a couple of calls to see where my people are.” After setting her bag behind the reception counter, he turned back to Joanna. His smile faded and she caught a glimpse of the sharp, protective-of-his-own man in charge Supervisor Ortiz had described. “Don’t pass judgment on my team, Agent Rhodes. They can all use a break for one afternoon. This has been one twisted case and we’ve taken some personal hits that haven’t gone down real well. We lost crucial evidence during that blizzard back in March. I’ve had a witness with amnesia and a crime boss who was killed before he could give me any answers. Our families have been attacked—my people tested in every way imaginable. The lab has gathered plenty of evidence and we’ve all got our suspicions, but we need to tie the pieces together and make it stick. We need somebody behind bars. Soon.”
“Of course, sir.” Her acquiescence seemed to appease the protective papa-bear growl of his voice. “I’m here to work—not catch up with former acquaintances.”
“In my head, I know you’re not the enemy. Still, it feels like a slap in the face for the bureau to bring in a big gun from outside our investigation to get us over this stone wall we’ve run into.” He pulled back the front of his jacket and propped his hands near the gun and badge at his waist. “I guess I can see the bureau’s logic in bringing in a Native American to interview Watts. I suppose he’s more likely to respond to one of his own.”
One of his own? Joanna’s skin crawled at the comparison.
But she didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “Possibly.”
So not only was she coming into a tightly knit group of co-workers, but Martinez was hinting that there was resentment against her being here. Joanna was used to being the odd man out. As the daughter of Ralph and Naomi Kuchu, she’d grown up not fitting in with normal families who worked hard and paid their bills and protected their children.
Since the day of her parents’ funeral, she’d taken that loner persona and turned it into a strength. She was trained to be courteous and professional right down to her painted pinkie toe, but she’d discovered that if she remained dispassionate and in control she was harder to read. And if the bad guy sitting across the interview table from her couldn’t get into her head, then he had no advantage over her.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.