Ice and Stone

Wednesday, January 9

9:57 a.m.

In the morning I decided to interview Dierdra Two Shoes’s unpleasant mother and try to find out about the men her daughter had been running around with.

10:47 a.m.

Mrs. Lagomarsino lived in a rented trailer in a small park on the western end of town. She was short and weighed two hundred pounds or more; in spite of the cold day, she’d covered her bulk with a flimsy pink-and-orange-and-green Hawaiian muumuu. When I stepped into her trailer, I understood the reason for the skimpy clothing: she had the heat in there cranked up to at least ninety degrees.

The room looked like a cyclone had hit a thrift shop: empty Southern Comfort bottles, cheap ceramic knickknacks, throw pillows, and full ashtrays were everywhere, many on the industrial-carpeted floor. Three cats peeked out at me from an adjoining door, then melted away, but their presence was still made known by the smell of an unclean litter box. Dorothy Lagomarsino heaved herself into a dilapidated recliner that wheezed when she put up the footrest. She left it to me to remove a jumbled stack of blankets from the love seat so I could sit down.

She lit a cigarette and said, “So you want to talk about my whore of a daughter.”

“I’m curious about her murder. I’m a Native woman myself—”

“Why bother? Was no more than she deserved.”

I studied her, trying to determine if she was actually that cold and uncaring or if her attitude was a defensive pose to cover her loss.

Mrs. Lagomarsino added, “That girl should’ve married Bart Upstream. But no, she didn’t want to be tied down to one man. She started going with anybody in pants.”

“The men she went with — who were they?”

“Uh-uh.” She waggled a thick finger at me. “That information is my insurance policy. What I know keeps me alive and well fed.”

“Keeps you alive? Aren’t you afraid the same man who killed your daughter might kill you?”

She didn’t answer, just gave me a tight-lipped stare.

“You called Dierdra a whore,” I said. “Why?”

“Because she was.” The woman’s voice dripped bitterness. “My first husband, her father Two Shoes, he left me when Dierdra was twelve. I caught my second, Len Riskin, in bed with her three years later. I threw both of them out, but the next year I took her back. What’s a mother to do when her only child is homeless and starving? But while she was living with me and Benny Lagomarsino, I found out she was screwing around with him, the son of a bitch. That was the last straw. They both went, and good riddance!”

“Was Dierdra involved with him when she was killed?”

“No. He got shot during a liquor store robbery not long after I threw his ass out. I didn’t hear nothing about her until the cops came to the door and told me she was dead.”

A depressing family saga, but no more so than most that clutter the pages of many a daily newspaper: “Father Kills Estranged Wife and Son, Then Self”; “Mom Drowns Children in Bathtub”; “Sister of mass murderer: ‘He was the sweetest baby.’”

Sometimes I grow weary of the gloom and doom in the news and avoid the TV and Internet for days and let the newspapers pile up. Most of what I do read are the features and feel-good stories. I’ll learn about the grim stuff soon enough, thank you.

There didn’t seem to be anything more I could learn from Mrs. Lagomarsino, so I thanked Dierdra’s mother for her time. She shrugged it off, but as I left I thought I saw a sheen of tears in her eyes; maybe Dorothy wasn’t as callous as she wanted people to think.

12:18 p.m.

Back in the village, I had a not-very-good lunch at the Owl Cafe, then put in another call to the agency and asked for Mick. The line was even more staticky today. It made me glad I lived where cell-phone service was not only easily accessible but of a reliable quality.

Mick came on the line. “The vial got here safely and is at the lab,” he said. “As far as the other stuff, this is only a partial list of the names you gave me, but here goes. Jake Blue: He studied biochemistry at Cal Poly at San Luis Obispo a few semesters, but didn’t graduate. Has never married. Moved back to Meruk County after his sister was killed, been employed at the lumberyard there ever since. No criminal record, average credit rating. Kind of a nothing man.”

That description didn’t match the man who had spoken with such passion about his sister’s murder, but the bare facts of a person’s life often don’t match what they’re like inside.

“You said you had everything on Josie Blue,” Mick went on, “but I found something that wasn’t in the sheriff’s file: She came back home because she had an unhappy love affair with a married man in Berkeley. A history professor named Max Kennedy. There aren’t many details on him, but I’ll keep checking.”

Mick went on, ignoring my silence, as many years of working together had taught him to do. “Now the Harcourts. Ben Harcourt, the Old Man, is well connected. Folks in Sacramento and D.C. I’m having a hard time getting more on that, but Derek’s working on it. He inherited the ranch from his father. Married late in life, to Victoria Spenser, whom he met while traveling in Australia. She gave him the two sons, died of pneumonia ten years ago.

“The sons: Kurt, the younger, has a master’s in economics from Michigan, taught for a while at USC, but a few years ago he had a nervous breakdown and went home to help his father run the ranch.”

“Can you get specifics on the breakdown?”

“Just that he spent time in a Napa sanatorium. Medically privileged information is difficult to access.”

“What about Paul?”

“A successful businessman with a reputation as a playboy, a run-around stud.”

“The reputation’s justified — I’ve seen him in action. Any trouble with women? Particularly Native women?”

“Nope. He seems too smart for that. He’s made a hell of a lot of money with his company, called Firestarter, and has been around, all over the world, and usually in the wrong places.”

“Such as?”

“Vegas, Hong Kong — before the recent crises — Macao, South America. Places where gambling is a big business and, as well you know, things are not always what they seem.”

“I think I’d better get some input from Hy on this. What about this company — Firestarter?”

“Its website claims it’s an investment broker for — get this — ‘Those who wish to enjoy exceptional lives.’ I’m checking with Luke at Merrill Lynch about its authenticity.”

“Great. Keep on it. Did you get anything on Gene Byram and Vic Long?”

“Not much. They’ve worked as ranch hands for the Harcourts for about four years. Drifters with no fixed addresses before that. Neither of them has a record in Meruk County or anywhere else in California, but Byram was arrested in Reno six years ago for attempted rape; charges were dropped when the woman left town.”

“How about Sheriff Noah Arneson?”

“He’s a homegrown boy — born and raised in Buford. He attended school there, went into the navy at eighteen, saw duty in San Antonio, Texas, and then in San Diego. Down there he was attached to the shore patrol, but was reassigned because of complaints of brutality.”

“Who made the complaints?”

“Victims and witnesses both.”

“Military witnesses?”

“Yes. Generally, naval witnesses of brutality don’t protect their own.”

I should’ve known that: my father had been a noncom in the navy much of his life. He would’ve reported Arneson too.

“Any more on him?” I asked Mick.

“He ended his naval career in purchasing — making deals for cheap soap and toothpaste for the post exchanges. That must’ve bored him, because when his tour of duty was up, he went back to Meruk County.”

“How’d he get to be sheriff?”

“By being there at the right time. Nobody else wanted the job. And I guess they still don’t, because he’s been hanging on for eleven years now.”

“Any indications of brutality?”

“Nothing more than what’s typical in small-town jurisdictions. He beat up a high school kid, but the kid was supposedly attacking him with a lead pipe. Drew his gun on a bunch of men who were fighting in a bar, but they backed down and left. Shot the mayor’s dog — claimed it was attacking him. Roughed up juveniles before returning them to their parents.”

“But the potential for more violence is there. What about his personal life?”

“Married three times, divorced twice. Current wife’s name is Abby.”

“Grounds for the divorces?”

“Both no-fault. Although he did settle twenty thousand on the second wife.”

“Meaning she had something on him.”

“Probably. You need anything else — about the victims or their families?”

“Anything you can get.”

“I’ll see what I can find. Oh, I’ve got a message for you from Hank Zahn. He wants you to do him a favor. I told him you were out of town, but he asked me to give you the message when you checked in.”

“What’s the favor?”

“He wants you to talk with Habiba.”

Hank Zahn was my best male friend since college days, my former boss from All Souls Legal Cooperative, and my lawyer. Habiba Hamid was Hank and his ex-wife’s adopted twelve-year-old daughter. Hank had hinted that she wasn’t dealing too well with the divorce, but things must have gotten worse since we’d last spoken.

I asked, “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Evidently. He said she’ll tell you.”

“When does he want me to call her?”

“ASAP. You have her cell number?”

“Yes.”

12:50 p.m.

Habiba didn’t recognize the number I was calling from, of course, but still she picked up immediately. “Shar,” she said when she heard my voice, “oh my God, everything’s going to hell.”

We’d been in touch infrequently since her parents divorced, but when we did talk, she was usually upset. As seemed to be the case now.

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re driving me crazy!”

“Hank and Anne-Marie? What have they done now?”

“Anne-Marie’s been offered a great job in Dallas. She wants to take me with her. Hank wants me to stay with him. They’re talking custody suits.”

I repressed a sigh. “What do you want?”

“Nobody’s asked me.”

“I am.”

Pause. “Well, I’d rather things go on like they are now, but that’s not possible. Dallas is... well, icky.”

“Not really. It’s a very cosmopolitan city.”

“Don’t give me that. It’s in Texas.”

“Texas has a fascinating history, and some of our best writers live there. McMurtry—”

“Who?”

“Larry McMurtry. He’s a world-famous novelist and screenwriter. He won the Pulitzer Prize for Lonesome Dove, an epic about a cattle drive.”

“Well, good for him, but cows are gross.”

I gave up on that tack. “So you want to stay here?”

“There’s a problem with that too — Hank’s talking about moving to Santa Barbara — some new woman he’s got there. I love Anne-Marie, and I love Hank too. All my friends are here. My school is here. And if I tried to switch off between them, I’d spend all my time on airplanes. And I fuckin’ hate to fly.”

“You want me to talk to them?”

“Would you?”

McCone, the go-to girl for people with problems.

“Yes, but I can’t right away. I’m in the middle of an investigation.” And in no frame of mind to mediate a family dispute. “Are you staying with either of them?”

“No, with a friend from school. But I don’t think her parents want me here.”

“You’ve got a key to my house, right?”

“Yes.”

“Take a cab there and move into the guest room. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but stay until we get things settled. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Shar.”

Shar — the go-to girl.

1:11 p.m.

Jake Blue was still nowhere to be found in Aspendale. There was nothing else for me to do in the village, and I wasn’t ready to return to the shack, so I called Allie Foxx. Would it be possible to take her up on her previous offer of a tour of the rez? I asked. She responded in the affirmative: “I’ve gotta get out of this office!”

She picked me up in her Land Rover an hour later. On the way out of town I filled her in on what I’d learned so far.

She asked, “Do you think Jake Blue may be involved with these murders?”

“No, not directly. Unless his sister’s murder four years ago is somehow connected. He thinks one of the Harcourt brothers may be involved.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. The Harcourts are elitists — they do pretty much whatever they want to.”

“But killing?”

“Who knows? Those people will do anything to preserve their status and power.”

We sped across barren land dotted with boulders, shadowed patches of snow, and winter-dead vegetation. In the distance, jagged peaks thrust upward into banks of low-hanging clouds. The afternoon felt heavy, oppressive. I opened my window slightly to let in the cold air.

Allie said, “This land was gifted to us by the ‘generosity’ of the US government — never mind that they stole it from us in the first place. First I’m going to take you on a short tour, then we’ll go see Mamie Louise. She’s an auntie of mine.”

Nothing marked the entrance to the reservation. A dirt road veered off the highway through scrub cacti and more dead vegetation. After about half a mile it ended at some weathered wooden barriers where a number of beater cars and trucks were parked.

Allie said, “From here on, we travel by foot.”

“Nobody drives in?”

“Very few, except for delivery trucks. There’s a history of flash floods here.”

Great. Acres of barren land, few services, and the possibility of drowning. This is what they gave the Natives.

We skirted the other vehicles and moved along a narrow track that looked beaten down by generations of feet. The sky was a mottled gray, clouds rolling in, but when I asked Allie about the prospect of rain or snow, she shook her head. “The storm clouds’ll drift southeast, end up in Nevada.”

Buildings began to appear: a few plywood shacks, a scattering of prefabs of different ages and states of repair, a pair of old log cabins. Directly ahead of us was a low cinder-block structure flying a flag I didn’t recognize.

Allie said, “That’s the Meruk Nation Hall and convenience store. We’ve got no medical services on the rez, but a doctor and a couple of nurses volunteer to come in every two weeks or so and hold a clinic there.”

“What if somebody has a serious health problem or needs emergency assistance?”

“Serious problems have to be treated in Alturas or Crescent City, even as far away as Santa Rosa. It means a helicopter ride. As for other emergencies” — she shrugged — “you hope for a response.”

I looked up at the flag on the Meruk Nation Hall. It depicted thin, black, dancing figures against a wavy background of fiery orange, bright blue, and magenta.

When I asked her about the flag, Allie replied, “It depicts the Three Warriors — an important part of Meruk legend.”

“The warriors look to be women.”

“They very well could be. We’re a matriarchal tribe. Most are. Stems from the days when the males went out hunting and were never home. Women had to control the home and the land. They were the decision-makers. Some even fought in wars.”

I was about to ask her more when I saw a woman approaching us — short, nearly bald, with nut-brown skin and a big smile. She walked with an intricately carved cane, and her clothing was brilliant — not in the hues of the Meruk flag, but in the shiny turquoise and pink polyester offerings of Walmart.

“Auntie,” Allie called.

The woman’s smile grew wider, revealing gapped teeth. “’Bout time you came to see me, you rascal,” she said. “Who’s this with you?”

“A friend from San Francisco, Sharon McCone. She’s come to see the rez.”

Mamie Louise stared at me, eyes narrowed. “She looks like the city, but part of her belongs here. What’s your tribe, girl?”

“Shoshone.” The clan was what Elwood had told me; I suspected he’d made it up. My birth father had spent many years in New York, only returning when his wife, a member of the Blackfeet Nation, wanted to get back to her roots. Elwood in many ways was as citified as any of Manhattan’s residents.

Mamie Louise considered. “Good people, them Shoshones. Too proud of their horses, but otherwise good.” She turned her gaze to Allie. “You just lookin’ around, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Hmmm. Well, look all you like, and then you come back to my house for tea.”

As we walked away, Allie whispered to me, “Be prepared. She makes the most horrible tea in the West — bark, roots, wild berries, strange plants. It’s a wonder she hasn’t killed anybody yet.”

“She seems somewhat formidable.”

“She is. On this rez there are three Warrior Women, a title that’s passed down from generation to generation. They’re tough as nails, and they rule. Absolutely nothing happens here without their official okay. She may seem like a dotty old lady, but Mamie Louise is the strongest of all.”

3:38 p.m.

Mamie Louise’s tea was horrible — but the rez was worse. Children played in the hardscrabble soil, as children the world over do, blissfully ignorant of the difficult lives they faced in the future. A few women gathered around a metal drum, washing clothes; their movements were slow and heavy, and they regarded Allie and me listlessly as we passed.

Mamie Louise had prepared a tea tray on her rickety kitchen table: three kinds of brew and a plate of oatmeal cookies that her next-door neighbor had baked. The cookies helped tame the taste of the tea. And Mamie’s joy at having visitors turned the gathering into a special occasion.

She chattered about the rez. “Once this was beautiful country. I came here as a bride with my first husband, who I met over in Idaho, where I was born. Our girls, they both died as babies. Measles, nobody ever vaccinated here. For a while we talked about going someplace else, where they treated you like human beings, but the time just passed... My husband, he died in a tractor accident on a ranch where he was working. My next man, he went off, looking for lively times in the big city. There were others, but nobody that really counted.”

“Are you glad you stayed here?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. It’s home. I got my government allotment. I got my say in local matters. Besides, where would I go? No family, no friends except who’s here. Although I sometimes get visitors. More of them than ever lately.”

That caught my attention. “Oh, who?”

She sat up straighter, looking proud. “Some of the finest white folk around here. Mr. Paul Harcourt — you know those people?”

I nodded.

“He brought me two bags of fertilizer for my vegetable garden and promised to come back and dig it into the soil. And that man who owns the lumberyard — what’s his name? Well, no matter. He stopped by and helped me make plans for a chicken coop. I haven’t had chickens for years, and I do like fresh eggs. He said he’d bring me the materials at no cost.” She turned shining eyes to me. “Ain’t it wonderful, what the good people in the world will do?”

5:10 p.m.

“‘Ain’t it wonderful?’” I said to Allie as we sped back toward Aspendale.

“It ain’t. Something bad is going on around here.”

“You mean you don’t believe millionaires are eager to build chicken coops for indigent old lady Natives?”

She snorted. “No. And I don’t just mean the murders.”

We rode in silence for a time. Then the cell in my pocket buzzed, something of a surprise because the only people who had the number were the Sisters and Mick.

It was Mick, sounding distressed. The line was fairly clear this time, clear enough for me to hear chaotic noise in the background — raised voices, furniture scraping. “Shar, I’ve got some bad news. There’s been a shooting here—”

“What?”

“Some nut with a semiautomatic pistol busted in — I don’t know how he got past all our security — and started firing. Ted was the only one who got hit.”

Oh my God.

“Ted... He’s not...”

“No, he’s all right. Just a flesh wound in his shoulder. Pure luck that nobody else was hurt, but everybody’s pretty badly shaken up.”

“What about the shooter?”

“One of the security guards heard the shots, rushed in, and blew him away. No ID on him yet. You’re going to need to come down, deal with the cops and insurance people.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

When I blurted out the news to Allie Foxx, she drove me straight to the airstrip. Hal Bascomb, whom I called as we drove, had my plane fueled and ready to go.

The flight seemed to take forever. I was badly upset by the news; I couldn’t imagine what had triggered the attack. And I feared for Ted, my forever friend...

My landing at North Field was less than stellar, but I didn’t think I’d record it as such in my logbook.

I reclaimed my car from where I’d parked it near the tie-downs and headed for the Bay Bridge. Traffic was snarled in spite of its being past the rush hour, and I cursed all the way into the city.

7:01 p.m.

By the time I arrived at our building, only one police car was still on the street, and any onlookers had long since been dispersed. Shards of broken glass from our triple-paned windows glittered on the sidewalk. A uniformed cop stood guard at the entrance, and when I showed him my ID, he allowed me into the underground parking garage. The one elevator that was working took a long time to get to our floor.

There were armed security guards by the elevator; they knew me and waved me inside. Furniture had been tipped over, items on the desks knocked askew. My eyes were drawn to a huge blood spatter on the carpet — the shooter’s, evidently, where the guard had shot him. Two bullet holes marred the wall behind the reception desk; more slugs had ripped down the hallway, past other cubicles, and taken out a Plexiglas partition around Ted’s domain.

A heavy silence filled the suite. Mick appeared when I called out, put his arms around me, and held me close.

I asked, “Ted?”

“Being treated at SF General.”

“Everybody else?”

“They’re shaken but okay. I sent them home.”

“Has the shooter been ID’d yet?”

“Not yet. The detectives seem to think he might be connected with Hy’s work in Mexico.”

“Hy — does he know what happened?”

“He knows. I got hold of him right after I talked to you.”

“Is he coming back?”

“As soon as he can.”

I let go of Mick, straightened. “Where was Ted when the shooter broke in?” I asked.

“Just coming down the hallway. The first shot got him in the shoulder, the second missed entirely.”

“Thank God for that.”

“There’s an SFPD cop who wants to talk with you. I put his number on your desk.”

“Okay, I’ll deal with it.”

I went into my office, dumped my bags on my desk, and sat down on one of the chairs in the seating area that overlooked the Bay. Fog had been streaming in as I’d landed at Oakland, and now all I could see was a blank gray wall.

9:15 p.m.

I made short work of the phone interview with the homicide cop, an inspector named Frank Baker. No, I had no enemies who would have retaliated in such a blatant way. Did my husband? I didn’t know; we kept our investigations separate. Where was he? On his way from Mexico. Where had I been at the time of the attack? In Meruk County, working a case. What case? That’s confidential. We need to know, Ms. McCone. I need to talk with my attorney, Inspector Baker.

9:30 p.m.

I tried to call Hy but got no answer on his cell. I left a voice mail message. Next I called the hospital to check on Ted. Good news: he’d been released an hour before in the care of his husband, Neal Osborn.

Hank, my attorney and close friend, was third on my list. He’d already heard what had happened and sounded shaken. I told him about my conversation with Inspector Baker, and he said he’d talk to Baker and negotiate a convenient time for a phone interview with me.

Then he asked, “Have you talked with Habiba?”

“Yes. Don’t you think you’ve treated her shabbily? You don’t take a child into your life and just toss her aside when it’s inconvenient.”

“I know that, but—”

“I’ve said my piece. Do what your conscience dictates. And now I’ve got to go.”

When I called Ted’s home, Neal answered and said he was resting comfortably.

“Is he in pain?” I asked. “Badly upset?”

“He’s still flying high on a shot they gave him at the hospital. So no pain. No upset either — he thinks of himself as a hero.”

“Well, give the hero my love, and tell him I’ll come see him tomorrow.”

10:05 p.m.

Exhausted, I went home to my house on Avila Street in the Marina district.

The house is on a corner lot, Spanish Revival style, and Hy and I had been lucky to buy it just before the real estate prices in San Francisco went berserk. The tech boom in Silicon Valley had lured many young instant multimillionaires into the city, and they bought and bought and bought without any understanding of what property was actually worth. As a result we have a ton of overvalued homes that will go for pennies on the dollar if and when the tech bubble bursts.

I left my car in the driveway and let myself in by the front door. The house was still warm from the afternoon sun, and totally silent. Then I heard the sound that Hy and I call “thundering cat hooves,” and two black furballs tumbled down the stairway. Alex and Jessie launched themselves at me, purring and mowling and rubbing against my legs. Jessie gave me love bites through my jeans.

“Okay, take it easy, you guys.” I followed them into the kitchen and refilled their bowls with kibble and water, poured myself a glass of Deer Hill Chardonnay, sat at the table, and watched as they scarfed up their meal.

There was no evidence that Habiba had been here. Maybe she’d changed her mind about accepting my invitation. If she did move in, I hoped she wouldn’t be planning on a long stay. For a while we’d had a young friend, Chelle Curley, and her cat living with us. But Chelle, a rehabber of old houses, had found one that she wanted for her own and was now living across town in Ashbury Heights. Chelle hadn’t been with us long, but even so the house had seemed crowded.

After a while I relaxed enough to check my personal voice mail messages, all of which had been left before the shooting at M&R.

My birth father, Elwood, calling from the Flathead Reservation in Montana. “Daughter, I am doing as you advised me — calling more often. When you assemble your thoughts, please call back.”

My birth mother, Saskia Blackhawk, an attorney in Boise. “Sharon, Elwood’s worried about you, and he’s driving me crazy. Do something about him!”

I smiled, glad they were close enough that he could pester her with his worries. Elwood and Saskia had a one-night stand during a visit she made to the rez that resulted in my conception, but she — a student with very little money — decided to put me up for adoption. My adoptive parents, distant relatives of hers, raised me as one of theirs — in hindsight a bad decision because I was a dark-skinned and — haired child amid four blond Scotch-Irish siblings. As proof of my superior detecting abilities, I fell for their story that I was a genetic throwback until my thirties, when the truth finally came out.

Now we were all family. I’d learned that I had a half sister, Robin Blackhawk, an attorney here in the city, and a half brother, Darcy. Robin had become a good friend, but Darcy was the problem child, having worn out his welcome at most of the facilities for schizophrenics west of the Mississippi. Saskia, Robin, and I periodically obsessed about what we’d do with him next, then decided that we’d march on east.

There were also messages from my sister Patsy, who was about to open her third restaurant — in Sonoma County, which meant she was getting closer to me year by year. My friend Carolina Owens, just to chat. My niece Jamie, a performer like her father, Ricky Savage, asking me to attend a concert she’d been part of in San Jose last night. Another friend, Linnea Carraway, a TV newscaster in Seattle, excited about a promotion.

I considered keeping the recording to replay when I was feeling alone and unloved.

Mick called several minutes later. “About that sample your pilot friend brought me. I just heard from the guy who works nights at a lab I took it to. The stuff is called Arbritazone, a rare earth element — a powerful antipsychotic drug and sedative, administered in only the most extreme cases. Doctors who prescribe it are mainly psychiatrists, but there’s also a large black market for it, as there is for most psychoactive drugs.”

Why would Jake have had such a drug? I’d seen nothing in his background that would indicate he was consulting a psychiatrist. Had he gotten it on the black market? Why?

“Can you track down the sample’s source?”

“I’ll try. But I bet nobody is going to own up to it. Not putting the patient’s or doctor’s name on a prescription is a no-no in this state.”

10:25 p.m.

The doorbell rang. Now who could that be at this hour? My address is not publicly available, but in this technological age there’s no such thing as privacy. Anybody can find out pretty much anything about anybody on the Internet.

The ringing continued. I went to the door, thinking it might be Habiba, but then a familiar male voice called out to me: my symbolic cousin, Will Camphouse. He held a miniature white rose plant in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

“I heard what went on at the agency,” he said, “and thought you might be in need of some cheer.”

“Thank you.” I hugged him, ushered him in. “It’s all over the news, right?”

“Yeah. You have any idea what that bastard’s motive was?”

“No, I can’t figure it. The cops assume it was linked to one of Hy’s cases. He may know when he gets back from Mexico.”

“Crazy business. Where were you when it happened?”

“Meruk County. I came back because of the attack. And I’m not getting anywhere on the case I’m working up there.”

“So you’re staying down here permanently?”

“No. I’ll be going back up there pretty soon.”

“Well, you look like you could use a snort right now.” He brandished the wine bottle.

“You’ve always been so elegant with words. And thank you for the roses.”

“I know yellow roses are Hy’s purview,” he said, “so I thought white might be better.” He was referring to my husband’s longtime practice of sending me a single yellow rose — my favorite — every Tuesday morning, a Tuesday being the day we’d met.

“They’re perfect. I have an empty space in the garden just waiting for them.”

Will and I had encountered one another on the Flathead Reservation in Montana when I’d first gone there to meet Elwood. We struck up a friendship and tried to figure out if we were related. Native bloodlines being as tangled as they are, we finally gave up and decided we were cousins, if only symbolically. At the time Will had been visiting the rez and working at an ad agency in Tucson; later he’d moved to San Francisco and opened his own firm. What with my brother John and former brother-in-law, Ricky, having moved here, and Patsy getting closer every year, I felt as if I’d become a pivotal point for the entire family. Which can be... well, good or bad, depending on who’s on good terms and who’s feuding with whom.

I went to the kitchen, opened his wine, fetched glasses. Will settled onto the sofa in front of the fireplace, and I knelt and stirred the wood until the flames flared.

He said, “The case you’re working on concerns the murder of those two Native women?”

“Yes. The reason I’m not getting anywhere is the atmosphere up there — it’s toxic.”

“In what way?”

“Hard to put into words. All these rumors floating around about the murders, but few people are willing to talk about them. Law enforcement that’s antagonistic to Natives. Rich ranchers who are after something, but I can’t figure what.”

Will took a swallow of wine. “Killings of Native women aren’t confined to Meruk County — they’ve been going on for twenty years or more and extend north into Canada. There was a recent statement from Prime Minister Trudeau that the Canadian government is beginning a stepped-up investigation of them. Also, the US attorney general has announced a nationwide plan — the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Persons Initiative — that would involve the FBI in investigating the cases.”

“Wish somebody would step it up in California.” I set the poker down and leaned against the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace. “In Meruk County there seems to be a prevailing attitude among law enforcement officials that crimes involving Natives don’t matter. Every time I come up against a mind-set like that, I realize we’re not the humanitarians we pride ourselves on being.”

“Well, since the murders and disappearances have been going on for twenty or more years, they can’t be linked to the same perp or perps. The Canadian crimes were the first — who knows how many. Next, two murders and an indeterminate number of disappearances in Washington state, a murder in Oregon, and ten reported disappearances. The two in Meruk are only the most recent. Any more disappearances up there recently?”

“One that I know of, five days ago. She could be victim number three.”

“So if you confine these crimes to the United States, you have an indefinite number of Native women disappearing over, say, a twenty-year period. I wonder if there are any international statistics.” Will drank again, looking grimly thoughtful. Then he took out his phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Friend of mine back east.”

“It’s way past midnight there—”

He waved for me to be silent. “Hey, Lily,” he said into the phone. “I know it’s late, but... Well, right, you old night owl.”

I listened as Will explained the situation.

“If you can run those figures, I’d appreciate it,” he said. “There’s a case of that wine you like from St. Francis in it for you... Yeah, love you too. I’ll wait to hear.”

“Love you?” I asked when he disconnected, raising my eyebrows.

“An old friend with benefits. Lily’s an analyst at Quantico; she doesn’t pass on sensitive information, but I doubt what I’m asking her is anything the papers wouldn’t be able to find out and print if they found it newsworthy.”

“But they don’t bother to print it. Natives, you know.”

“Yeah.”

We sat mostly silent for a while, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire.

Half an hour later his phone rang. He listened, then said, “That’s too bad. Can you access any more on the individual cases? Anything about the legislative crap? ...Yeah, I can wait awhile; this stuff’s been going on for generations, but McCone and I would sure like to shine some light on it soon. Also, there’s this Indian Restitution Organization... They aren’t? Well, that’s good. Thanks, love. Talk soon.”

He closed the phone. “The Restitution Organization’s defunct. Lily feels there’s been a lock put on the information about these cases, but she’ll keep trying and e-mail me what she already knows. You hungry?”

“I don’t remember when I last ate.”

“Cheeseburgers? Greasy old curly fries? Other stuff that the health police would arrest us for?”

I nodded.

He opened his phone again. “I happen to have an app for twenty-four-hour home delivery of just those things.”

11:52 p.m.

“So,” Will said, munching on a cheeseburger, “Native women in all types of communities — cities, suburbia, country, and reservations — are murdered at ten times the national average. As for disappearances, there aren’t any accurate records, but it’s thought to number in the thousands over the past fifty years.” Lily had just e-mailed him the promised reports.

“Do they say what that’s attributable to?” As if I didn’t know.

“Poor response from law enforcement agencies, as you’ve seen up in Meruk. Prosecutors have declined to pursue around fifty-two percent of crimes against Natives. Then there’re the legal loopholes, such as the one that allows non-Native offenders immunity from crimes they commit on Indigenous lands.”

“How can they do that?”

“Once the perps are off the rez, they aren’t culpable. It’s the law — made by whites.”

“That sucks.” I dipped a fry in ketchup, looked at it, and put it back on my plate.

“Yeah, it does. There’s a nationally based organization similar to your Sisters — the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women. You know about them?”

“Yes. The Sisters told me and I checked their website.” I yawned. “I’m running out of steam, Will. Let’s call it a night.”

“Sure. You go upstairs, get some sleep. I’ll clean up and let myself out.”

I went up and checked the guest room to see if Habiba was there.

She wasn’t, but her stuff was piled around. So at least for a while, we had a boarder. Then I took Will’s advice and went to bed.