Читать книгу Before Sunrise - Diana Palmer - Страница 9

THE NEXT MORNING, Phoebe heard sirens racing past her small cabin just as she woke up. She hoped there hadn’t been some terrible accident. The mountain roads were narrow and some were dangerous in this part of the area. They’d had flatland tourists go over guardrails occasionally. The drop was inevitably fatal.

She dressed and grabbed a quick cup of coffee before she drove her old Ford to work. The museum parking lot was usually empty at that hour, except for her car and Marie’s. But a sheriff’s car was sitting at the entrance with the motor running.

Frowning, she got out of her vehicle, shuffling her purse and briefcase. At the same time, Drake got out of the patrol car. But he wasn’t smiling, and he looked uneasy.

“Hi,” she greeted him. “What’s up?”

He rested his hand on the butt of his service revolver in its holster as he approached her. “You said you talked to a man yesterday about some skeletal remains, right?”

“Right,” she said slowly.

“Did he give his name?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?” he persisted somberly.

She hesitated, thinking back. “He said he was an anthropologist…”

“Damn!”

Her lips parted. She’d never seen easygoing Drake look so angry. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“They found a DB on the Rez,” he said quietly.

She blinked, trying to recall the terminology. “A dead body,” she translated, “on the reservation.”

He nodded curtly. “Just barely on it, about a hundred feet or so from the actual boundary. He appears to be of Cherokee descent, because we also found a tribal registration card, with the name and number missing, and we found part of a membership card from a professional anthropological society, which we assume was his—the part with his name was missing. So was his driver’s license.”

She gasped. “That man who called me…?”

“Looks like it could be. We can’t go on Cherokee land unless we’re asked. And this makes it a federal matter. But I have a cousin on the reservation police force, and he told me. It’s all real hush-hush. The FBI is sending a special agent out to investigate, someone from that new Indian Country Crime Unit they’re forming. I just wanted to warn you that they will want to talk to you.”

“What?”

“You were the last person who spoke to the victim,” he said. “They found your telephone number scribbled on a pad next to his phone at his motel and looked it up in the phone book. That’s when Cousin Richard called me—he knows I hang around the museum a lot.” He studied her worried expression. “Somebody killed the guy, in his motel outside Chenocetah, or on the deserted dirt road where he was lying. The road leads the back way onto some construction sites, near a mountain honeycombed with caves. A jogger found him lying on the side of the road early this morning with a bullet in the back of his head. She’s still being treated for shock at the local clinic,” he added.

Phoebe leaned against a pillar at the front of the museum, trying to catch her breath. She’d never imagined that she might end up involved in a murder investigation. It took a little getting-used-to.

“Maybe I should join her,” she said, and not completely facetiously.

“You’re not in any danger. At least…I don’t think you are,” he added slowly.

She lifted her face and met his eyes. “Excuse me?”

He frowned. “We don’t know who killed him, or why,” he said. “Unless that story of his was concocted. And even if it is, there are three new big construction projects underway in the area. If what he told you is true, there’s no way of knowing where he was looking when he found that site.”

“Who did he work for?” she asked.

“They don’t know yet. The investigation is still in its preliminary stages. There’s one other thing—you can’t tell Marie.”

“Why not?”

“She can’t keep her mouth shut,” he replied quietly. “There’s an investigation going on, and I’m telling you about it because I’m worried for your safety. I don’t want it told all over the county, though.”

She whistled softly. “Oh, boy.”

“Just in case, have you got a gun?”

She shook her head. “I shot a friend’s pistol once, but I was afraid of the noise and I never tried it again.”

He bit his lower lip and drew in a long breath. “You live out in the country. If I can get a target, will you let me come out and teach you how to shoot?”

She felt the world shake under her feet. Drake was happy-go-lucky on ordinary days. But he wasn’t kidding about this. He was genuinely worried about her. She swallowed hard.

“Yes,” she said after a minute. “I’d be glad to have you teach me, if you think it’s necessary.” She gave him a searching look. “Drake, you know something you aren’t telling me,” she murmured.

“A site like that, with an unknown set of possible Neanderthal remains…” he began slowly. “If it existed, it would make it impossible for any developer to build on it. We’re talking millions of dollars in time and materials and labor, wasted. Some people would do a lot to avoid that.”

“Okay,” she said, forcing a smile. “So I’ll learn to shoot.”

“I’ll talk to the FBI agent when he, or she, gets here,” he added, “and see what we can come up with by way of protection.”

But she knew how that would end. Government agencies, like local law enforcement, had the same budget problems that she did. Funding for around-the-clock protection wouldn’t be forthcoming, despite the need, and she certainly couldn’t fund it herself. All the same, the thought of taking a human life made her sick.

“You’re thinking you couldn’t shoot somebody,” he guessed, his dark eyes narrowing.

She nodded.

“I felt that way, before I went into the Army,” he told her. In fact, he’d just come out of it the year before, after a stint overseas. “I learned how to shoot by reflex. So can you. It might mean your life.”

She winced. “Life was so uncomplicated yesterday.”

“Tell me about it. I’m not directly involved in the investigation, but jurisdiction is going to depend on where the murder actually took place. Just because he was found on the Rez is no reason to assume he was killed there.”

“Would a killer really want the FBI involved?” she asked.

“No. But he might not have known he was involving federal jurisdiction. The local boundaries aren’t exactly marked in red paint,” he reminded her with a cool smile. “The dirt road where the body was found looked as if it was close to Chenocetah. But it wasn’t. The reservation boundary sign was lying facedown about a hundred yards from where the tire tracks stopped.”

She pursed her lips, thinking. “The killer didn’t see the reservation sign. Maybe it was at night…?”

He nodded, smiling. “Good thinking. Ever considered working on the side of truth and justice, fighting crime?”

She laughed. “Your department couldn’t afford me,” she pointed out.

“Hell, they can’t afford me, but that didn’t stop them hiring me, did it?” he asked, and grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “You take care of your museum, and I’ll do my best to take care of you,” he added.

She frowned.

He held up a hand. “In a nice, professional way,” he added. “I know you think I’m an overused man.”

She did gasp then. “Marie!” she raged aloud.

He laughed. “I’m not offended, but that’s why I said you shouldn’t share secrets with her.” He lifted both eyebrows. “Actually, it’s a little like peacocks.”

“It’s what?”

“A peacock makes a fantastic display to attract females. His feathers may be a little ragged, and the colors may be faded, but it’s the effect he’s going for. Sort of like me,” he added, smiling faintly. “I’m not Don Juan. But if I pretend I am,” he said, leaning toward her, “I might get lucky.”

She laughed with pure pleasure.

“Didn’t you see that movie with Johnny Depp, when he thought he was Don Juan?” he teased. “It worked for him. I thought, why the hell not? You never know until you try. But I had to lose the cape and the mask. The sheriff wanted to call in a psychiatrist.”

“Oh, Drake, you’re just hopeless,” she said, but in a softer tone than she’d ever used with him.

“That’s better,” he said, smiling. “You’ve been wearing winter robes. Time to look for spring blossoms, Miss Keller.”

“Sometimes you actually sound poetic,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “I’m part Cherokee. Remember, we’re not just ‘the people,’ we’re, ‘principal people’ in our own tongue.”

Every tribe was “the people” in its own language, she recalled, except for the Cherokee, who called themselves “principal people.” They were an elegant, intelligent people who had their own written language long before other tribes.

“No argument?” he asked.

She held up a hand. “I never argue with the law.”

“Good thinking,” he stated, straightening so that his close-fitting uniform outlined his powerful body.

Before she could reply, the sound of a loud muffler caught their attention. Marie pulled into the parking lot in her old truck, which was pouring smoke from the tailpipe. She cut off the engine and it made a loud popping sound.

Diverted, Drake went to it at once, motioning for Marie to open the hood. He stood back to let the smoke dissipate, waving it with his hand. He peered in over the engine and fiddled with a valve.

He stood up, shaking his head, while Marie waited with a worried look on her face. “It’s carburetor backfire, Marie,” he told her. “If you don’t get it fixed, it could catch the truck on fire.”

“I’m not convinced that would cost less than replacing it,” Marie muttered. “Oh, I hate this thing!”

“It’s just old,” he told her, smiling. “Maybe a little…overused.”

Marie went scarlet. “I’ll go phone my brother at his garage right now!” She didn’t even look at Phoebe as she ran past her, fumbling with her key when she realized the door was still locked. Fortunately she didn’t think to ask why.

Drake and Phoebe were laughing softly.

“I won’t tell her a thing,” Phoebe promised.

“I’ll see what else I can find out. Maybe Saturday, for the lessons?” he added.

She nodded. “I get off at one.”

“I’ll arrange my schedule so I’m off that afternoon,” he promised. He glanced toward his squad car, where the radio was crackling. “Just a minute.”

He strode to the car and picked up the mike, giving his call sign. He listened, nodded and spoke into it again.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “The FBI agent is on his way. They want us to assist,” he added with a grin. “I suppose my investigative abilities have impressed somebody at the federal level!”

She chuckled. “See you Saturday.”

He waved, jumped into the car and sped away.

“WHAT WAS GOING ON OUT THERE?” Marie asked curiously.

“Drake’s going to teach me to shoot a gun,” Phoebe said. “I’ve always wanted to learn.”

Marie was oddly subdued. She moved to the desk and looked across it worriedly. “I know you don’t want to trust me with any important news, after I blabbed to Cousin Drake about what you said. I’m really sorry,” she added.

“I’m not mad.”

Marie grimaced. “My brother says they found an anthropologist dead on the Rez this morning, and gossip is that he spoke to you yesterday. You’re in danger, aren’t you, and now you can’t tell me because you think I’ll tell everybody.”

Phoebe was shocked. “How did your brother know…?”

“Oh, we know everything,” she said. “It’s a small community. Somebody from one clan finds out and tells somebody from another clan, and it’s all over the mountains.”

“Worse than a telephone party line,” Phoebe said, still gasping.

“Really,” Marie agreed. “You could stay with me,” she added. “Your place is way out.”

“Drake’s going to teach me to shoot.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You didn’t like him.”

“He grows on you.”

She smiled. “He’s my cousin. I think he’s terrific. He may strut a little, but he’s smart and brave. You could do a lot worse,” she added.

Phoebe glared. “He’s only giving me shooting lessons,” she said firmly. “I’m still not ready to get interested in a man, overused or not.”

Marie ignored that. “He’ll look out for you. So will my other cousins and my brother, if you need it,” she told her. “You’ve done a lot for us. We don’t forget favors, especially with family.”

“I don’t have a drop of Native American blood, Marie,” Phoebe said firmly.

Marie grinned. “You’re still family,” she mused, and turned away. “I’ll get to work.”

Phoebe watched her go absently, her mind still on the dead man. It was upsetting that someone she’d spoken to the day before had been murdered. What was also upsetting was the destruction of a potentially precious site. If there were Neanderthal remains at a construction site—although she seriously doubted it—it would rewrite the history not only of North Carolina, but of the continent. Certainly it would shut down the developer, no question. Was that a reason to kill a human being? Phoebe, who had no love of money past being able to pay her bills, couldn’t comprehend what some people might do for great wealth.

SHE WENT ABOUT HER BUSINESS for the next two days. Drake stopped by to tell her that the FBI agent had arrived, but he was oddly reticent about anything else. And he gave her a look that kept her awake. On Friday morning, she understood what it meant.

Just as she was getting ready to welcome a group of elderly visitors from a local nursing home, a black car pulled up at the steps. It had a government license plate. The FBI no doubt, she thought idly, watching for the tour bus.

But the man who got out of the car froze her in her tracks. He had long black hair in a ponytail. He was wearing a gray vested suit and sunglasses. He came up the steps and stopped dead in front of Phoebe. He took off the glasses and hung them by one earpiece from his vest pocket.

“Hello, Phoebe,” Cortez said quietly. He didn’t smile. His scarred face looked leaner and harder than she remembered it. There were new lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked as if he’d never smiled in his life. His black eyes were penetrating, cold, all business.

She lifted her chin. She didn’t scream and throw things, which was how she felt. She forced herself to look composed and professional. “Hello, Cortez,” she replied, with equal formality and deliberately not using his first name. “What can I do for you?”

“A deputy sheriff named Drake—” he pulled out a pad and made a production of looking for the man’s name, which he knew quite well already “—Stewart said that you spoke to the victim the night before his body was found. I’d like to have a word with you, if you have time.”

She swallowed hard. “You’re investigating the case?”

He nodded. “I’m back with the FBI. I’m part of a new unit being set up specifically to investigate violent crime on Indian Reservations nationwide.”

She wanted to ask why he’d given up law, when he loved it so. She wanted to ask why he’d deserted her with nothing more informative than a newspaper clipping, when he’d looked at her as if he loved her. But she didn’t.

“Come into my office. Just a minute, please.” She stopped and called to Harriett, who was taking a break. “Harriett, there’s a busload of people coming from the nursing home. Can you take it? I have to speak to this gentleman.”

Harriett lifted an eyebrow as she looked at Cortez, who towered over both women. “At least the government’s taste has improved,” she murmured dryly, and went out front to meet the bus, which was just pulling into the parking lot.

Cortez didn’t react to the comment. Neither did Phoebe. She went into her office and offered him the only chair in front of her cluttered desk. He didn’t sit down because Marie walked in abruptly with a payroll report, since it was Friday. She paused when she saw their visitor. Her quick eyes took in his long hair and dark complexion, the suit and his businesslike bearing. “Siyo,” she said in Cherokee, a word of greeting as well as goodbye.

He lifted his chin and his eyes were hostile. “I don’t speak Cherokee. I’m Comanche,” he said bluntly.

She colored and cleared her throat. “Sorry.”

He didn’t say a word. He moved aside to let her put the report on Phoebe’s desk.

Marie exchanged a bland glance with Phoebe and beat a hasty retreat, closing the door behind her.

Phoebe sat down behind her desk and looked at Cortez. She folded her hands in front of her on the desk. They were working hands, with short nails and no polish. No rings, either.

“What can I do for you?” she asked professionally.

He looked at her for just a few seconds too long. His eyes darkened. There were shadows in them.

He pulled the notepad out of his pocket, crossed his long legs, flipped the pad open and checked his notes.

“You spoke to the man the day before his body was found,” he repeated. He took out a pen. “Can you tell me what he said?”

“He told me that a construction company was trying to cover up a potentially explosive archaeological site,” she replied. “Neanderthal remains.”

The pen stilled and he lifted his eyes to hers. He didn’t say a word.

“I know, it sounds preposterous,” she replied. “But he was quite serious. He said that the company was deeply in debt and afraid for the site to be discovered, for fear of being bankrupted during the excavation that would follow.”

“There are no recorded Neanderthal remains anywhere in North America,” he replied.

“I have a degree in anthropology,” she replied coldly, insulted by the insinuation that she wouldn’t know that. “Would you like to see it?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you,” she bit off. “Back to the subject at hand, please. I know it sounds outlandish, but the man seemed to know what he was talking about. I tried to trace his number. He’d blocked it.”

“They found your number on a pad beside his telephone, in a motel room. he registered under a false name and address. His ID is missing, except for a card designating him as a member of a national anthropological society.”

“If someone stole his credentials, why didn’t they take that, too?” she asked.

“It was under the bed. His wallet was thrown on his bed, empty of everything except a twenty-dollar bill. They must have emptied it there. Maybe they tore up the anthropology society ID card and that piece of it fell and they didn’t notice. Pretty good work otherwise, though. No obvious clues, although I had our crime technician check the room with a blue light for latent prints. There were none. I sealed off the room and I’ve already got our crime unit on the scene,” he added, naming a group whose purpose was specifically to gather and process trace evidence.

“How about footprints? Tire tracks?”

He shifted restlessly. He was recalling, as she must be, their cooperation in tracking down a polluter outside Charleston by following tire tracks. It was a time when she was young and full of life and hope and ambition. It was a different world.

He forced himself not to look back. “It’s early days. We’re checking that out. Had you ever heard his voice before?” he added.

She shook her head.

“He didn’t mention the developer’s name, anything that would help find him?”

She shook her head again.

He grimaced. “There are a number of possibilities, I’m told. Meanwhile,” he added, putting up the pad and pen to pierce Phoebe’s eyes with his own, “you’re the only link we have to a murder.”

“I could be the next victim,” she assumed.

“Yes.” He bit off the word, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I’ve already been told that. I have a dog,” she said. “And one of the deputy sheriffs is giving me shooting lessons tomorrow.”

Something touched his face, something cold and angry. “Do you have a gun?”

“He’s loaning me a pistol.”

He thought for a moment. “I’ll see what I can do about some protection.”

She stood up. “You and I both know that no law enforcement budget is going to provide around-the-clock protection for me. Marie’s cousins have offered to keep an eye on me,” she added.

His eyes narrowed. “This is not a civilian matter.”

“That’s good, because they aren’t civilians. They belong here. They live on the reservation,” she replied sweetly. “And you may have jurisdiction there, but you’re not going to be met with open arms, either. They don’t like feds.”

He glared at her and she glared right back.

“Three years,” he bit off.

“Your choice,” she returned icily. “Haven’t you got a crime to investigate, Special Agent Cortez? Because I’m quite busy myself.”

She walked to the door and jerked it open, her face so hostile that Marie, walking toward her, actually turned in midstep and went the other way.

Cortez unhooked the sunglasses from his vest pocket and shot them over his eyes and nose. “I’ll be in touch,” he said curtly.

She almost made a sarcastic remark, but it wouldn’t help. Nothing would help. Dragging up the past would only make things worse. She had other concerns, not the least of which was her own well-being.

He walked out, apparently not expecting a reply. A minute later, she heard the engine start and the car pull out onto the highway. He didn’t even spray gravel when he left. He was more controlled now than he had been when Phoebe knew him, and that was saying something.

Marie came into the office a few minutes later, watching her boss warily.

“So that was him.”

Phoebe wanted to deny it, but there was no use. “Yes.”

“No wonder you came up here in the middle of nowhere to work,” she replied. “That’s more man than I’d want to try to handle.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Drake isn’t going to like him, I think,” Marie mused.

Phoebe wasn’t listening. “I’ve forgotten a lot of my training,” she murmured to herself. “But I do remember that nothing has ever been found in North Carolina older than the last Ice Age, around 10,000-12,000 Before Present Era. The man did mention something about finding the skull in a cave…” she added slowly.

“This whole area is honeycombed with caves,” Marie reminded her. “Don’t you remember those stupid stories about our huge stockpile of lost Cherokee gold? As if we had anything left after we were rounded up like cattle and walked all the way to Oklahoma in 1838!”

“Of all the tragic stories I know—and I know some—that hurts the most,” Phoebe said quietly. “I can’t even walk through the Museum of the Cherokee Indians without being reduced to tears. It was a terrible mistake on the part of Andrew Jackson and local governments.”

“Gold fever,” Marie said. “We were in the way.”

“Yes. But your family escaped,” Phoebe reminded her gently. “So did a few others.”

“Not enough of us did,” Marie said sadly. “But, about that gold—there are lots of caves.”

“Any at those construction sites?”

“There’s a mountain that adjoins all three of them, near a river, and it’s honeycombed with caves,” Marie said. “They were bulldozing near them last week. Chances are that no matter what that man found, if it wasn’t inside a cave, it’s a pile of rubble by now.”

“What if,” Phoebe wondered aloud, “we could get an injunction to halt construction everywhere until we had time to look?”

“What if we got sued by starving construction workers?” Marie asked, putting things into perspective. “Plenty of men from the reservation work for those companies. It’s going to hit a lot of families hard if we shut those companies down. And how would you get the authority to do it, anyway?”

Phoebe grimaced. “I wish I knew.”

They went back to work. Alone in her office, Phoebe tried to come to grips with Cortez’s unexpected presence in her life. It had wounded her to have to see him again with the past lying between them like a bloodied knife.

She wondered why he’d come here. He couldn’t have known she was working nearby. He’d obviously been back with the FBI for some period of time, to be assigned to this case. But where was he working out of?

She tried to recall every single word the murdered man had said. She pulled up a blank file on her computer and started typing. She was able to reconstruct most of their brief conversation, along with putting color into the man’s accent. He had a definite Southern accent, which would help place him. He had a way of talking that sounded like a bad stutter, or a lack of cohesive thought. He’d mentioned two people, a developer and another person who was apparently feeding him information. That might be useful. He’d opened the door and someone had called to him while he talking to her, definitely a woman’s voice. It had been at exactly 3:10 p.m. the day before. None of it was worth much alone, but it might give the authorities something more to go on.

She wasn’t going to phone Cortez. How could she, when she had no idea where he was? But she could give the information to Drake when he came by her house the next morning. He’d give it to the proper people.

She saved the file and went back to her budget plan. Unfortunately she forgot all about it in the sudden arrival of a late group wanting a tour of the facility.

The next morning, she was just finishing her small breakfast when she heard the sound of a truck coming down her long dirt driveway. Jock, her black chow, was barking loudly from his vigil on the front porch.

Phoebe went onto the porch in sock feet, jeans and a sweatshirt, a cup of coffee in one hand. Drake drove up in a black truck and parked at the steps.

“Got some more coffee?” he asked as he dragged out of the truck in boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt under a black and red flannel shirt. “I need fortifying. I’ve just been flayed, filleted and grilled by the FBI!”