Secrets in Four Corners. Debra Webb

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СКАЧАТЬ The stories about the cliff dwellings and the great sleeping warrior who’d become a mountain had kept her enthralled as a kid.

      At close to fifty degrees, it could have been a nice day. Bree sighed as she caught sight of the official Ute Reservation police SUV. A beat-up old pickup, probably belonging to the guide, was parked next to the SUV.

      Another murder.

      The idea that Steve Cyrus wanted her on the scene before he passed along any known details nagged at her again. What was with the mystery?

      She parked her vehicle, grabbed a pair of latex gloves from her console and climbed out. She headed toward the cliffs where the two-story, sandstone dwelling hung, a proud, crumbling reminder of the residents who built them more than a millennium ago. The dwellings here were every bit as breathtaking as Mesa Verde’s, but this park didn’t get near the tourist flow. Primarily because no one came in without an official Ute guide. Preservation was far too important to her people.

      Both officers as well as the guide waited some fifty yards from the area where during tourist season folks scrambled up the cliff face to check out the condos of the past. The perpetrator apparently hadn’t been too concerned with concealing the body, though the location was definitely off the beaten path to some degree, particularly this time of year. Yet, most anyone who might have been out here could have stumbled over the scene. Or the act in progress.

      Just another strange element.

      As if her instincts had picked up on something in the air, her pulse rate quickened.

      “Hunter,” Steve Cyrus called out as he headed in her direction. “I need a minute.” He hustled over to meet her.

      “What’s going on?” She glanced to where Brewer and the old man waited. “You got a body or what?”

      Cyrus sent an oddly covert glance in that same direction. “Before you take a look there’s something you need to know.”

      This got stranger by the moment. Bree held up her hands. “Wait—have you called the lab? The coroner?” The realization that no one—no one— else had arrived as of yet abruptly cut through all the confusion.

      Cyrus shook his head, looked at the ground before meeting her gaze. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know who the hell to call first. This is…complicated. That’s why I called you before anyone else.”

      “What the hell are you talking about, Cyrus?” Good grief, it wasn’t like this was the first deceased victim he’d come upon.

      “The vic…” He scrubbed a hand over his chin. “She’s…”

      At least Bree now knew that the victim was female.

      “She’s a federal agent.”

      Federal agent? “BIA?” Her first thought was that an agent from the Bureau of Indian Affairs had been murdered. The controversy over who was boss, Tribal Affairs or BIA, was an ongoing issue. Things got complicated and damned hot at times.

      Cyrus shook his head. “FBI. Julie Grainger.”

      Regret hardened to a lump in Bree’s gut. She’d only met Julie Grainger once. Nice lady. Young, early thirties, like Bree. Hard worker. Loyal. A damned good agent from all indications.

      “I told you this was complicated.”

      No kidding. “All right.” Bree rubbed her forehead, an ache starting there. “I’ll take a look and talk to the guide. You call Callie MacBride and get her lab techs over here. Tell her it’s Grainger.” A mixture of frustration and more of that regret dragged at Bree’s shoulders. “Then call the coroner’s office.” Think, Bree. This one will be sticky. Protocol has to be followed to the letter.

      “You want me to call Sheriff Martinez?” Cyrus suggested.

      A vise clamped around Bree’s chest. This was Kenner County…of course the sheriff would need to be involved. Bree heard herself say yes. What else could she say? Then she did an about-face, her movements stiff, and headed to where Brewer and the guide waited.

      Patrick Martinez.

      No matter that he had been the sheriff of the county for the last six years, somehow she had managed to avoid running into him. They hadn’t spoken in nearly eight years.

      Eight years!

      Focus on the job.

      Special Agent Julie Grainger was dead. She deserved Bree’s full attention.

      Nothing else mattered right now. Determining why she was dead and who killed her was top priority. “Yeah, do that. But call the others first.”

      “Morning, Detective,” Brewer said as she approached.

      “Good morning, Officer Brewer.”

      “This is Burt Hayes.” Brewer gestured to the guide.

      Hayes was Ute, as all park guides were. Bree’s family was Ute, as well. Hayes had that aged, craggy look, the one that said he’d spent almost as much time in the scorching Western sun as the Puebloan dwellings. He wore faded jeans and beneath the matching denim jacket an equally faded khaki shirt, along with leather boots that had seen far better days. His graying hair was pulled into a ponytail that reached the middle of his back.

      “Mr. Hayes.” Bree extended her hand, gave his a firm shake. “I need to take a look around, then I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

      Hayes nodded. “You Charlie Hunter’s girl?”

      Most folks around the Four Corners area knew her father. He’d once been an outspoken advocate for the Ute people and tribal affairs…before a stroke had silenced his deep, strong voice.

      “Yes, sir.” Bree smiled. “And he’s still as ornery as ever.” She turned to Officer Brewer. “Why don’t you assist Mr. Hayes with filling out his statement while I have a look at the scene?”

      Brewer nodded, didn’t comment or ask any questions, which meant that neither he nor Cyrus had done that part yet. Learning the victim was a federal agent had shaken them both.

      Complicated.

      Definitely complicated.

      The silence felt deafening as Bree tugged on the latex gloves and crouched next to the victim nestled amid the rocks ensconced in the desert sand. Grainger’s slender body was bloated with the ugliness of death, her skin pale and marbleized. One hand had been ravaged by wildlife, probably coyotes. Bree grimaced. They were damned lucky there wasn’t more damage.

      Bree visually examined the body for indications of the kind of violence done by man. No blood. Redness and bruising on the throat. No other signs of violence were visible except ligature marks on her throat. Bree leaned as close as possible and studied the marks. A unique pattern…not mere twine, certainly not a particularly thin wire. The longer she looked the more familiar the pattern appeared. Maybe a necklace of some sort. She’d definitely seen something like it before. Though Bree felt fairly certain cause of death was strangulation, the coroner would make the final conclusion.

      She sat back on her haunches and inventoried more details. Jeans, СКАЧАТЬ