He growled, “I think it’s past Lex’s bedtime. Don’t go nowhere, I’ll be right back.”
I laughed softly.
It seemed for the first time in years, my personal life was on a happy plane. And I’d be damned if I’d spoil the feeling by worrying about when it’d end.
• • •
Thursday afternoon, Director Shenker singled out the cases that Turnbull and I were working on at the biweekly meeting. He shuffled through his notes. “Three female victims, ranging in age from twenty to sixty-two. None of the murder methods are the same. The victims were not related. Nor were the victims well acquainted. The commonality is the victims had digitalis in their systems.” He looked at Shay. “The family requested immediate release of the body within twenty-four hours? Why? Wasn’t this last victim in the final stage of breast cancer?”
“Yes. She had a living will, and she’d filed paperwork requesting no religious ceremony. She was cremated yesterday.”
That caught me by surprise. I’d heard nothing about it from Hope or Jake.
Shenker sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Have either of you made any progress? We’ve got no suspects… on three first-degree murder cases?”
Shay and I didn’t make eye contact. As the senior agent, he should jump in with a progress report.
He didn’t. Why? Was he afraid he’d get spanked by the boss? I wanted to cluck at him for being such a chickenshit.
“Agent Gunderson.”
Shit. I felt all eyes in the room on me.
Now who’s clucking? “Yes, sir?”
“Did you find anything in your research at the tribal archives to substantiate your earlier theory? About previous deaths of women on the reservation being overlooked, unsolved murders?”
I decided to let fly. I’d gotten smacked down by the boss before, and I probably would get it again. “Yes, sir. Over the last five years, at least three women died in a similar manner, and those deaths weren’t investigated by the tribal PD. Rural car accidents. Domestic abuse turned fatal. Former drug users found OD’d. The pattern was there, but I do understand-to some degree-how the cases were overlooked. Like in these most recent cases, the previous victims were women of varying ages. They were each killed a month apart, over a three-month span. And because the death situations were… close enough to be believable for the victim’s lives, not even their families raised a stink about the cases not receiving proper investigation from the tribal PD. The women who died in mysterious car accidents? All had long records of serious traffic violations and accidents. The women who were found stabbed or sliced up? All had many documented instances of domestic violence. The women who OD’d? All had long histories of drug addiction. The assumed suicides? Those women struggled with depression and had made previous attempts at suicide. So there is a pattern.”
Shenker nodded. “So how do these latest victims fit? Because the pattern has been altered. No one-month lag time between murders. Do you have a theory on why?”
“Before, the killer was content, probably smug, in the knowledge he was getting away with it. But his method has gotten more disturbing. That’s a point of pride for him now. Some initial theories within the tribal PD and the FBI were that Rollie Rondeaux killed Arlette Shooting Star as a screen so he could get away with murdering his live-in, Verline Dupris, a week later.
“It might’ve initially served the killer’s purpose to throw suspicion at Rollie Rondeaux. Then Rollie was arrested and placed in tribal jail. This is where his need for attention has come in. Now he’s afraid Rollie will get credit for his kills. So he kills again, in a very brutal and very public place. This time the killer wanted everyone in law enforcement to know that Penny Pretty Horses wasn’t a copy-cat murder.”
Silence.
“Thank you, Agent Gunderson. I appreciate the legwork on this.” Shenker peered over his bifocals at Agent Turnbull. “It appears it was a good thing Mr. Rondeaux was placed in tribal police custody before we went to the assistant U.S. attorney to ask for a grand jury investigation.”
Turnbull remained stoic.
“But we are still looking at three first-degree murders and no suspects.” Shenker frowned and pulled out his BlackBerry. “Sorry, I’ve been waiting for this call. Take ten, people.”
Chairs creaked as everyone got up, but I stayed put, figuring this would be the quietest place. I closed my eyes, wondering if I could get in a quick ten-minute combat nap.
But there was always the possibility I’d drift into a combat nightmare.
“Great job laying out the cold cases’ facts, Mercy.”
I opened my eyes and looked at Shay. “Thanks.”
“You pulled my ass out of the fire, because guaranteed, Shenker was holding a blowtorch.”
“You would’ve deserved it.”
“Definitely.” He grinned. “I might make an FBI agent out of you yet, Sergeant Major.”
I leaned closer and whispered, “Fuck off. Sir.”
Shay laughed. “Any issues with the Red Leaf and Pretty Horses families?”
“No. In fact, I had no idea the family had requested early release of the body.”
“It’s been a long week.” He paused. “Do you have plans for the weekend with the Dawson boys?”
I must be giving off friendly vibes for Turnbull to ask about my personal life. “Mason is riding in the Sheriffs Association charity event Saturday night.”
Shay lifted a brow. “Riding? Like, motorcycle? A poker run or something?”
“No. It’s a rodeo benefit, so he’ll be bull riding.”
“Better him than me, I guess.”
With all the tragedy and drama that’d gone on in our lives recently I was looking forward to a night at the rodeo. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Working.”
“Why?”
He grinned at me again. “Someone’s gotta figure out what’s going on with these cases while you’re off jerking on Dawson’s… rope.”
17
If Dawson was nervous about riding a bull, he hid it well.
Lex peppered his father with questions. Dawson answered in the measured tone I’d started to think of as “daddy speak,” where he showed loads of patience, and rarely allowed his explanations to venture into pure lecture territory. I was still trying to find my balance with Lex. Dealing with Dawson’s son wasn’t the same as dealing with my nephew.
“So when was the last time you rode a bull?” Lex asked, leaning over the back of the seat from his place in the middle of the club cab.
“A couple of months ago at a bull-riding expo at the Eagle River powwow.”
My head swiveled toward him. “Really? How come I didn’t know that?”
“Because you woulda chewed me out and reminded me I’m too old,” Dawson said with a grin.
“You are too old,” I retorted sweetly.
“Probably. But I managed to stay on eight seconds, and that’s what counts.”
“I don’t think you’re too old,” Lex offered, sending me a scowl.
Talk about a case of hero worship.
You were exactly the same way with your father at that age.
Dawson snatched my hand off the seat and kissed my knuckles. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry from a million miles away in Virginia.”
Mollified, I let him hold my hand. I gazed out the window, tuning out their conversation and trying not to think about Penny’s body dangling from a tree. Trying not to think about the pain in Sophie’s eyes. Trying not to chastise myself because we weren’t any closer to catching the murderer than we had been the day Arlette Shooting Star turned up dead.
Billboards zoomed by as we hit the outskirts of Rapid City, and then we were among grocery stores, fast-food joints, secondhand stores, and car dealerships.