Merciless

3

On the drive home I couldn’t help but wonder what Rollie’s angle was. How could the FBI not be aware of other female deaths on the reservation that might relate to the Shooting Star case?

The crotchety old man had a bug up his butt about all law enforcement agencies-especially federal-since the American Indian Movement, known as AIM, uprisings in the 1970s. He refused to admit whether he’d been involved in the AIM violence. But given his issues with the government after his military discharge during the Vietnam War, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d masterminded some of the shit that’d gone down.

My dad hadn’t been sheriff during those rocky years, so I hadn’t known details about the outbreaks of fatal violence until I’d studied the case histories and investigations during my training at Quantico.

Since I’d already been assigned to an FBI office with multiple Indian reservations in the jurisdiction, I’d had to take extra classes on racial sensitivity and honoring traditional Indian customs within the confines of federal laws. Not even being a registered member of the Eagle River tribe had let me klepp out of the courses.

Although I’d been armed with information after the lectures, nothing I’d learned about that turbulent time was cut and dried. Emotions ran high, untruths abounded, subterfuge on both sides culminated in tribal members and FBI agents dying. Not a particularly proud moment for either AIM or the FBI. But I had a better understanding of Indian resentment… as well as the feds’ frustration.

So I had to question Rollie’s motive in telling me to look deeper. Was he trying to lead me off course? And if so, why?

At home I flipped on the TV and my laptop, nestling into the living room couch with a beer. I started my Internet search wide, going back twelve months, using the keywords: Indian reservations, women’s deaths, accidents, violence.

1,379 results popped up.

Well, wasn’t that a kick in the ass. I narrowed the search to the local papers in western South Dakota and retrieved more manageable data. I started clicking on links, copying pertinent ones into a separate document.

Three obituaries from last year caught my notice. Each a month apart. The first one was for Tunisia Broken Arrow, age twenty-two. Nothing in the obit about cause of death. The second one for Minneola “Mimi” Diggeman, age thirty. Again, nothing in the obit about cause of death. The third obituary was for Delia Moss, age twenty-seven. No listed cause of death.

How could all of these young women have died of natural causes? I cross-referenced the time frame, and none of the names were listed as car accident victims. Illness possibly? Or suicide?

I changed the parameters, going back twenty-four months, and found three more obituaries. All young women, all dead within a month of one another. None of the obits listed cause of death.

What the hell was going on? The only way to make any sense of this was to see the tribal PD’s report logs. There’d be a written report for a suicide. As well as a written report on a death due to exposure-I noticed these obits were mostly from the late fall/early winter months.

I knew I’d have to bring this up with Turnbull.

My cell phone buzzed with a text message from Dawson: Crushed under the weight of unfinished paperwork. Trying to catch up. Late night and early-morning shift means I’m crashing in my office tonight. Sorry. Miss you.

I miss you, too.

I hated that our schedules didn’t mesh, but that would probably always be a wrinkle in our private life together. No wonder cops had such high divorce rates. I sucked it up, swallowing the missing-my-man girly whine, then shut everything off and went to bed.

• • •

My sleep was fairly restful, considering the previous day’s disturbing events.

But as I drank coffee and looked at what the computer search engine had dredged up the night before, I knew I needed to talk to Rollie again-before I brought up my suspicions with Shay. Since we had interviews scheduled for first thing this morning, I’d drop by his place at the Diamond T after work tonight.

Jake must’ve come by early because the dogs weren’t around when I stepped onto the porch. I squinted at the sky. Another dreary day. The moist air seeped into my bones, and I shivered. Wet cold is worse than dry cold. I’d take winter in the high plains desert over winter in the supposed warmer clime of North Carolina. At least if it snowed, the dulled, gray, lifeless tones of late fall would be hidden beneath a blanket of white.

The parking lot at the tribal police station was nearly full-an odd occurrence this early in the morning on the rez. I remembered to put my FBI parking tag on the dash. Hopefully, that wouldn’t earn me a tire iron to the windows or headlights.

Inside, a dozen or so people crowded around the receptionist’s desk, arguing about wrongful incarceration of a family member. I dodged fighting kids and skirted a hefty woman in a wheelchair who was blocking the door. After winding my way through teetering boxes in the hallways, any calmness evaporated once I reached the conference room. I hated that I wanted Agent Turnbull here. I hadn’t dealt with the tribal cops much, and I was still finding my footing as to who was in charge in what circumstance.

Officer Ferguson was kicked back, with her boots on the table and a file folder obscuring most of her face. Those boots dropped with a thump when she saw me. “Sorry, Agent.”

“No problem.” I spied a coffeepot and poured myself a cup.

“Is your partner coming today?” she asked.

No surprise she’d be asking about Shay. The man’s amazing looks could’ve landed him on the cover of a historical western romance, where the scantily dressed, brave Brave held the virginal white girl in his big strong arms. “Special Agent Turnbull is not my partner. He’s my supervisor. So I assume he’ll show.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” She gave me a curious look. “Do you think the reason we’re interviewing Arlette’s friends is because we’re women?”

Oddly enough, that comment relaxed me, because I’d had the same thought. “Probably. But I’ll take a dozen teenage girls in interview any day over one strung-out male meth head.” I sat across from her and sipped my coffee. “Do you know these friends of Arlette’s?”

She shook her head and slid me a file folder.

I skimmed the lone document. “Where’s the other girl’s statement?”

“That’s all we’ve got.”

I bit back a comment about the seemingly haphazard treatment of documents at the tribal PD. When I glanced up, I noticed the curtain to what I’d assumed was a window was now open. It wasn’t a window but a two-way glass to a viewing room. That’s where Turnbull would be.

Three raps sounded on the door, and the receptionist stuck her head in. “Fergie? Are you ready for Naomi Malloy? The Kicking Bird family has taken over the front office, and she’s getting spooked.”

Officer Ferguson looked at me and I nodded. “Bring her in.”

After the door closed, I said, “So… Fergie, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “I got that nickname after Fergie, the former Duchess of York, became a household name, but before Fergie, from the Black Eyed Peas, became popular.” She smirked. “But I’m sure you can see my resemblance to the latter.”

Redheaded Officer Ferguson was about five feet three and as curvy as a tipi pole.

“One of my nicknames in the army was Gunny, which pissed off the marines we were stationed with, because that name is used exclusively for a male gunnery sergeant. They still gave me the stink eye after I pointed to my name patch and explained Gunny was short for Gunderson.”

“Fucking jarheads,” she muttered. “I was in the air force for a decade, so I know how they are.”

“You were military police?”

Fergie nodded. “Ended up stationed at Ellsworth for the last of my enlistment. Met a native guy, moved to the rez, got a cop job… and here I am.”

“He fell in love with your lovely lady lumps?”

She grinned and started to retort, but the door swung inward, sucking the humor from the room. The ashen face of a young Indian girl reminded us of our unpleasant task.

I stood and offered my hand. “Naomi? I’m Special Agent Gunderson of the FBI. Thank you so much for coming in to speak with us.”

“Why don’t you sit here.” Officer Ferguson offered her a seat between us. “That way we won’t have to shout at each other to be heard. You want coffee or water?”

Naomi shook her head and slid into the chair.

I studied her openly. Long, straight hair scraped back into a ponytail. Eyes heavily lined with black eye shadow. She peeled back the oversized, black ski jacket. The puffiness of her down-filled coat made her look much huskier than her actual slight stature. Rings adorned all ten of her fingers. Her fingernails were painted black, but the polish was mostly chipped off.

She tugged down a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words TEAM JACOB, and I bit back a groan. A Twi-hard. My sister had convinced me to watch the first Twilight movie, and I had done so with extreme cynicism, leaving on my running shoes to make a fast getaway. But the flick was entertaining, despite the bucket loads of teen angst.

“Since you’re a minor, we can wait to begin until there’s a parent or guardian present.”

“My mom’s dead; my dad’s in jail. I live with my grandma, and she don’t get around too good. I don’t need anyone’s permission to talk.”

I glanced at Fergie, and she shrugged, as if to indicate that this happened regularly. “If it’s all right with you, we’ll start with the basics. How well did you know Arlette?”

Naomi twisted her rings. “We hung out. We liked the same books.”

“What kind of books?”

“Vampire ones, mostly.” Her chin came up, daring me to make fun of her.

I played dumb. “Vampire books like Dracula or the ones Anne Rice writes?”

“No. Like the Twilight series.” She pointed to her T-shirt. “Like the Vampire Academy series. The Vampire Diaries.”

“Ah. Did you and Arlette see each other outside of school hours to talk about your shared interest of vampire books?”

“Yes, as often as we could.”

“Would you meet at her house?”

She paused. “Sometimes. But her uncle hated when she had people over. He complained he wanted to watch his TV in peace and quiet without loud teenagers around.”

“How was her relationship with her uncle?”

“In front of other people, like tribal members, he acted as if he liked having her around. But when it was just them two and her aunt? He wasn’t nice to her, and she heard him say he couldn’t wait until she was gone.”

My gaze narrowed. “Did you hear him say that?”

“Once. On one of the rare times I stayed over at her house. I needed a drink of water, and I overheard him and Arlette’s aunt arguing in the living room. He said he’d never wanted kids-his own or anyone else’s-and maybe if they were lucky, Arlette would screw up just like her mother had, and then they’d be rid of her.”

“Did you tell Arlette what you overheard?”

She shook her head. “It would’ve made her feel worse because she knew her uncle didn’t want her around.”

Rotten luck to overhear such a cruel remark in light of what happened to her friend. “Did Arlette ever tell you that her uncle physically hurt her? Or threatened to hurt her?”

“I don’t think so. He just said mean shit to her all the time. Especially after he’d been drinking.” Naomi’s eyes widened with fear. “You won’t tell him I said any of that?”

“No. Everything you tell us is confidential.” I glanced up from the scant notes I’d jotted in my notebook. “Who else did Arlette hang around with?”

“We were both kinda loners. People made fun of our interest in vampire books.” Naomi scowled. “She sometimes hung out with Mackenzie Red Shirt. But only when Mackenzie wanted something.”

“Like what?”

“Like a ride to one of the parties out at Dickie’s slough. Or if she wanted Arlette to do a report for her.”

“What would Arlette get in return?”

Naomi became interested in the frayed end of her scarf.

After a silent minute or two, Officer Ferguson prompted, “Naomi?”

She looked up at me. “Mackenzie kept promising to introduce Arlette to this older guy she’d been crushing on.”

“Did Mackenzie ever follow through?”

“Yeah.” Tears swam in her eyes. “That’s when everything changed. When Arlette changed. She started lying to her aunt about where she was going. She stopped caring about her schoolwork.”

Now, maybe this was making sense. “Who was the guy?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. She just called him J.”

Naomi must’ve sensed my skepticism because she blurted out, “I swear it’s the truth! Arlette said she found her Jacob but he wanted to keep their relationship secret. When I told her that was a bad thing, she accused me of being jealous. I should’ve made her tell me! I should’ve… done something, because now she’s dead!” Naomi set her head on the conference table and sobbed.

I wished Carsten was here. I stared at the bawling girl, unable to comfort her because petting and soothing weren’t my way. I waited, quietly tapping my pen on my notepad to the same cadence of my boot tapping on the floor. Fergie poured a glass of water and passed it to Naomi, offering the gentle, encouraging pat on the back I couldn’t.

The girl lifted her head and wiped the moisture from her face. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” I asked.

“That Arlette was staked through the heart. With a wooden stake? Just like…”

A vampire.

Another chill zigzagged up my spine. Why hadn’t Triscell Elk Thunder mentioned Arlette’s obsession with the Twilight series and anything vampire-related?

She had to’ve known.

Did you know everything about Levi’s interests?

No. But I hadn’t lived with Levi, either.

“Yes, Naomi, I’m afraid it is true,” Fergie said gently.

“Oh God. That’s so sick-” Her voice caught on a sob, but somehow she didn’t break down.

“When was the last time you saw her or talked to her?”

She sniffled. “The day we had the fight.”

Poor girl. Talk about guilt. A fight with her friend, and then she winds up dead. I handed her a tissue. “How long was that before Arlette disappeared?”

“Three days.”

“Had Arlette ever mentioned wanting to run away?”

“No. She didn’t like it here, but she knew she’d have to graduate to get outta here for good.” More tears welled up. “We talked about leaving together. Until she started spending all of her time with J.”

Jealousy was a powerful emotion. Still, I had a hard time believing Naomi would murder Arlette because she’d ditched her for a guy. Even if the guy Arlette bragged about was her “Jacob.”

God. Teens really took the fictional world that seriously?

My freakin’ head was about to explode.

Officer Ferguson jumped in. “Did everyone know you and Arlette had a falling-out?”

Naomi shook her head. “And no one would’ve cared anyway.”

“Anything else you care to add?”

Another head shake.

“Okay. Thanks for your help. If we think of anything else, can we call you?” I glanced down at the paperwork and rattled off the numbers. “That’s your cell phone number?”

“Yeah.”

“I imagine it goes everywhere with you.”

“I guess.”

“Did Arlette always have her phone with her?”

“Not during school hours. She kept it in her locker because she got it taken away by the principal once and her uncle freaked out. Why?”

“Because Arlette’s phone was found in her locker. You think she just went someplace and forgot it?”

Naomi slid her arms into her coat sleeves. “Nope. That means she left school before lunch and planned to come back.”

• • •

Mackenzie Red Shirt, our next interviewee, didn’t show.

I returned to the empty conference room after a brief bathroom break, trying to sort through my notes. What would be the best way to track down Miss Red Shirt and convince her to tell us Arlette’s mystery guy’s name? I also wanted to talk to Triscell. I’d taken her vague, flustered state as a result of grief. So it surprised me to see a “No contact without permission from the tribal president” note on the file. That made zero sense.

I was lost in thought and didn’t notice that Turnbull had entered the conference room until he parked his butt on the table next to my papers.

He actually gave me a warm smile. “Great job with the friend.”

I leaned back in my seat. I hated how he invaded my personal space-and he was aware of it, so naturally he did it as often as possible. “Had you made the connection between the stake in the victim’s heart and vampires?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, but I dismissed it. I’m still not convinced there is any correlation. But I ain’t gonna write it off as coincidence.” Shay spun my notebook around to read my notes. Then his gaze hooked mine.

Damn man had the most compelling eyes. I could say that objectively, when he wasn’t annoying the piss out of me. He’d hit the lottery as far as good looks. Sporting the best of his Native American ancestry, he had chiseled cheekbones, smooth skin, and hair as black as tar worn long enough to brush the edges of his prominent jaw. His body appeared long and lean, but I’d trained with him at the gym and knew firsthand that well-honed muscles lurked beneath his casual work clothes. Add in his dazzling smile, an abundance of charm, and Shay Turnbull was a force to be reckoned with.

When he wanted to be.

So I wondered what he wanted now. “What?”

“Have you had lunch?”

“No. Why?”

“I’m following up on another case and wondered if you wanted me to bring you something back from Taco John’s?”

Thoughtful. And so very un-Shay-like. “Sure. Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“Cool. Oh, and while I’m gone, could you make copies of the files I gave the receptionist?” He leveled that charming smile on me.

And… that was very Shay-like. But I’d get lunch out of the deal, so I wouldn’t complain.

• • •

After lunch, I headed to my pickup to grab a sweater because the conference room we were working in was like a meat locker.

It’d been a while since I’d been waylaid in a parking lot during the day. To my credit, I didn’t pull my gun on the young Indian woman leaning against my truck, angrily puffing on a cigarette.

“Are you Gunderson?” she demanded.

“Yeah. How’d you know this was my vehicle?”

“FBI tag in the window. Good way to get your tires slashed.”

“I’ll take that under advisement. Who are you?”

“Mackenzie Red Shirt.”

Ah. The no-show teenage interviewee. “Well, Mackenzie, you’re late. I can spare a half hour if you wanna go back inside-”

“No fuckin’ way am I goin’ into the cop shop.”

“Why’d you volunteer to come in?”

“I didn’t volunteer.” She inhaled quickly and blew out a violent stream of smoke. “That little bitch Naomi called and told me she signed me up. She set me up.”

My gaze flicked to the main road. We weren’t exactly inconspicuous. “So why are you here?”

Mackenzie glared at me. “To find out what Naomi said.”

“Why not just ask her?”

“I tried, but she wouldn’t tell me nothin’.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “So you what… jumped Naomi after she left?” I tsk-tsked. “Not the brightest crayon in the box, are you, Mackenzie? Threatening another minor in full view of the cop shop.”

“I didn’t leave a mark on her.”

A bully. Lovely. One who used words was no different than one who used fists. The only thing a bully understands is another bully. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Here’s the truth: leaving bruises is a more effective threat than reducing a girl to tears.” I leaned closer. “Need a personal demonstration on how that one works?”

Her eyes showed a hint of fear. “No.”

“First smart thing you’ve said. Now move it so I can get to my truck.”

That caught her off guard. “But… I thought you wanted to talk to me.”

“I did. But now after meeting you? I doubt anything you’ll tell me will help our case.”

“Oh yeah?” An indignant Mackenzie aimed a cool look at me. “What’s it worth to tell you the name of the guy I hooked Arlette up with?”

“You’re expecting I’ll pay you for that information?” I laughed. “Wrong. Besides, Naomi already told us.” I tossed the baited hook out, waiting for her to jerk on the line.

“Bullshit. How could she’ve told you when she don’t know his name?”

“What makes you think Naomi doesn’t know?” I paused a beat and feigned surprise. “Oh. Right. I’ll bet when you threatened her, she swore she didn’t know anything and didn’t tell us anything. And you believed her.” I shrugged. “I would’ve lied, too.”

“What did that bitch tell you?” she snapped.

“Sorry. Confidential information.”

Mackenzie whipped her cigarette down, not bothering to tamp it out before she stormed off.

I braced myself for more accusations when she stomped back.

“Since this is all so freakin’ confidential, you’ll keep my name out of it when you talk to Junior?”

I knew a Junior. Problem was, I knew several of them, including the teenage Junior who’d been part of the trio to discover Arlette’s body. “Of course. But Naomi didn’t tell me how you knew Junior.”

She slumped beside me. “We lived in the same trailer court for a while, until my stupid mom got us kicked out.”

“Which trailer court?”

“The Diamond T, outside of the rez.”

Goddammit. The Junior I was thinking of was Junior Rondeaux-who lived in that same trailer court with his dad and Verline. Now I was more than a little pissed that Rollie hadn’t mentioned his son Junior’s connection to Arlette Shooting Star.

A chill raised gooseflesh on my arms. Was that why Rollie had sought me out? To share his suspicion that his son was somehow involved in Arlette’s death?

No. He’d never tip off the feds, especially not when it came to family.

My silence must’ve been the signal for Mackenzie to talk.

“Look, I was just playin’ with Arlette, introducing her to Junior. She and Naomi were so freakin’… ridiculous about that Twilight shit. Talking about it all the time. Acting like it was real. I overheard them talking about wanting to meet someone like Jacob-a mystical Indian with family ties to the old ways. People around here whisper about Junior’s old man bein’ all-powerful, so I teased Arlette about knowing a guy like that. I didn’t expect she’d become obsessed with him. I strung her along for a while before I introduced them. But I didn’t know there was such bad blood between Junior’s old man and Arlette’s uncle.”

“Did Arlette’s uncle know she was seeing Junior Rondeaux?”

Mackenzie shook her head. “But Junior’s dad knew about Arlette and told Junior to break it off with her.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know. They both stopped talking to me.”

“How long ago was this?” At her blank look, I clarified, “When did you introduce them?”

“Over a month ago.”

That fit with Naomi’s time frame of when Arlette started acting strangely. But something else didn’t fit. No one in the entire Eagle River community knew about Junior and Arlette sneaking around? Bull. The rez was a hotbed of gossip. Why hadn’t anyone come forward with this information?

You’re surprised no one is spilling their guts to the tribal police? Or the feds?

I glanced at Mackenzie and was shocked to see her hands covering her face. “What’s wrong?”

She raised her head and stared at me through teary eyes. “Arlette was a dork, but I didn’t want her to die.”

“Do you think Junior could’ve killed her?”

No answer.

I looked away when a car door slammed, and when I refocused on Mackenzie, she’d ducked down, vanishing into the sea of cars. The abrupt end to our conversation left me unsettled.

Officer Ferguson frowned as she approached me. “I figured you’d be back from lunch before now.”

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and waggled it. “Got waylaid by a phone call. What’s up?”

“Nothing. I thought I saw you talking to someone, but you must’ve been talking to yourself.”

“Hazard of the job.” I shoved my cell in my pocket. “I came out here to get a sweater. Can’t you guys crank the heat up in that conference room? I think I have frostbite.”

She laughed. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Gunny.”

• • •

A few hours later I drove to the Diamond T.

The trailer court looked as crappy and run-down as it always had. Busted windows in the trailers, broken-down cars parked everywhere, trash blowing back and forth between falling-down fences. Talk about a rural slum.

It was early enough in the day that kids weren’t home from school yet. Their suspicious stares on my last visit reminded me of the ragged children in war-torn Iraq; their smiles had never quite masked the hatred in their eyes.

I parked behind a blue Dodge Caravan with a broken rear window that had been repaired with plastic dry-cleaning bags and lime-green duct tape. The back end of Rollie’s truck jutted out from the gravel driveway between the doublewide and the garage.

A dog barked, starting a chain reaction of howls, from one littered yard to the next, as I got out of my pickup.

I climbed the rickety steps and knocked on the screen, expecting to wait. But the inner door swung open immediately. Verline stood inside the jamb, a diaper-clad toddler cocked on her hip. “Rollie ain’t here.”

“Thanks for the update, but I’m looking for Junior.”

She shifted the fussy boy. “Why?”

“I need to ask him a few questions.”

“It’d be a waste of time. Unlike his father, he ain’t gonna talk to you.”

“So does Junior still live here?”

“Not since Rollie kicked him out.”

I resisted asking if that’d happened after Rollie found out about Junior’s alleged involvement with Arlette Shooting Star. “Have you seen him recently?”

An anxious look flitted across her weary face. “He shows up when he knows his old man ain’t around.”

“Do you know why Rollie sent him packing?”

Verline shook her head.

“Did Junior mention where he was staying the last time you saw him?”

She averted her eyes, and then tugged on the boy’s diaper before she looked at me again. “I didn’t ask.”

I let it slide, even though I was sure she was lying.

An excruciatingly loud wail came from inside the house. Holy crap. Did that new little baby have a monster set of lungs. Then the toddler started shrieking and hitting Verline on the shoulder with his tiny fists.

“I gotta go.” And she slammed the door in my face.