"You sure? Could be a rugged hike."
Brass glanced at his shoes. Polished leather, hard soles. Cop shoes. Not made for mountaineering. But there didn't seem to be a lot of choice. "Well, we don't have a helicopter handy, and I don't see any other way in."
"You want to wait for backup?"
"And stand here while Solis and Moran decide to go somewhere else? I'll make the call on my way, but l don't want to wait."
"It's your call," Aguirre said.
"Then it's a plan. And Richie?"
"Yeah?"
"If you get shot, try to make sure it's loud enough and takes long enough to cover my entrance."
"I'll try to do that. And what are you going to be doing, exactly?"
"I'll be asking Solis and Moran some questions," said Brass.
"Questions? You don't think arresting them might be a good idea?"
"I think it's a great idea. But they're not suspects yet."
"In Domingo's killing. Which is your biggest problem. In the attack on Meoqui Torres's home, they're definitely suspects, and that's my problem."
"True. But they're on my turf now, which gives me first crack. Don't worry, I won't let them go anywhere without releasing them to you.'
"Whatever you say, Jim. It's not like I have any jurisdiction here anyway. But if we don't get 'em rattled up, we're never gonna get anything out of 'em on either case."
"Okay," Brass said. "Not a great plan, but it's a plan."
"That's how I look at it." Aguirre raised his chin toward the boulders behind the house that was giving them cover. "Head that way, then circle around," he suggested. "Maybe a quarter-mile, a little less. There probably won't be guards inside. Or not many, at least."
"I just want to talk to them, not get into a gun-fight," Brass said. "Maybe you should go in the back door."
"And let you go in the front way? You want to go talk to the guys who we know have guns?"
"What, you don't think they'd welcome me with open arms?"
"I'm more worried about what'll be in their hands. Go ahead, Jim. I'll get back around front and keep them occupied. When you get the drop on Ruben and Shop, get 'em in cuffs and bring 'em outside."
"Got it," Brass said, heading into the rocks. "I'll see you there."
By the time Brass had picked a route between the first boulders, a fine layer of light brown dust had completely coated his shoes and the cuffs of his dark pants. Soon he wished he had left his suit jacket in the Jeep or managed to bring the vehicle's air-conditioning with him. It wasn't a particularly hot day as southern Nevada went, but it wasn't cool, either. Brass took the jacket off and slung it over his shoulder as he worked his way over, around, and between more huge slabs of stone.
He wasn't sure what he would find when he got to the house. But if it was air-conditioned and had a floor, it would be better than this.
When the traffic hemming him in lightened, Ray pressed down on the accelerator pedal and felt the vehicle surge forward. He had been meaning to head for the reservation for hours, certain that Nick and Captain Brass could use another pair of hands there. But one thing after another had come up, stalling him, keeping him otherwise occupied. Now that he was finally on his way, the urge to race there at top speed was almost overwhelming.
He would have to call Nick when he got a little closer. As reservations went, Grey Rock was not a large one, but it still covered a lot of square miles, and he didn't know his way around.
But as he thought about calling Nick, he remembered the last phone call he had received, from Wendy. Domingo, she had said, was killed by a white man with blond hair and blue eyes. Since they didn't have a specific suspect in mind yet, it wasn't necessarily a game changer. But it certainly shifted the emphasis of their search.
As Ray drove, he pondered what else he knew about the case, both things he had learned firsthand from the physical evidence and details he had been told by others. Domingo had been out at a nightclub, where he spent a lot of money and quite a bit of time with a young Paiute woman. He tried to take her home with him, at which point she revealed her true agenda. They argued, and she got out of his Escalade and threw a brick through the passenger window. But she didn't kill him, or so she said. The evidence backed her up on that point.
Domingo continued home. There he lit a cigar and relaxed… and then had a visitor. He let the visitor in. They talked. Perhaps they argued. At some point, things got physical. Domingo scratched the visitor, but the visitor whacked him in the head with the heavy gold lighter Domingo had used earlier to light that cigar.
He or she had wiped the lighter clean of fingerprints – or had been wearing gloves the whole time, which seemed unlikely on a pleasant April night – and dropped it into the blood already spreading on the floor. He or she had then written the word "Quantum" on the wall in blood and had taken off. Little physical evidence had been left behind. Some tiny bits of soaptree yucca. A few threads. Orange cat hairs. Footprints had been left behind the house, maybe by the killer but maybe by someone else – perhaps even a witness to the murder.
Footprints, threads, yucca… Ray tapped his brakes and searched for the nearest exit. Reaching it, he swung off the highway and pulled to the side of the road to make a quick phone call.
Archie Johnson answered after two rings. "Good, you're still there," Ray said. "Listen, I know this is outside your usual range of duties, but I need some information. I don't know if you'll find it online, but if not, you might have to call the Grey Rock Paiute tribal headquarters. I'm going to give you a name to check on. You ready?"
When the call was finished, he got back on the highway, headed in the opposite direction.
The reservation would have to wait.
A painted sign on a skinny post outside the clinic showed a red cross and the words "Grey Rock Medial Clinic #4." A couple of cars and trucks were parked on the paved lot outside the tiny concrete-block building, a cube painted a kind of sunset rose that made Nick think of diluted blood. Right in front, not in a parking spot but cutting across the entry path, was the white pickup with tribal police markings that Rico Aguirre had sent over. Guess cops are the same all over, Nick thought. They think parking rules apply to everyone but them.
He was glad to see the vehicle, though, glad that the cop inside had followed orders and come there to guard Torres.
It looked as if the officer was sitting inside the truck, behind the wheel. Nick walked over to check in, to let the cop know he was there before going inside to see how Torres was doing. He crossed the parking lot, hand raised to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun glinting off the truck's windshield.
But when he reached the truck, its driver's-side window was open, and the driver hadn't budged. He was leaning to his right, his head tilted forward, his straw cowboy hat shading his face. Taking a nap, it appeared. "Hey," Nick said, putting some extra volume into it. "Everything okay here?"
The cop didn't respond. Nick went closer, and the smell hit him like a clenched fist.
Nick halted and made a quick scan. Whoever had done the cop didn't seem to be present anymore.
Or, more likely, he had gone inside.
Nick drew a weapon and took a few steps nearer the truck. The guy had been shot through the open window and slumped away from it, but his seat-belt held him in place. The shot had come from a slightly up angle, catching the cop just below his left eye. He had probably been talking to his assailant through the open window when the person outside raised a small-caliber weapon and shot him. The bullet exited out the back of the cop's skull – the truck's passenger side was painted with blood, hair, and brain matter.