Redhawk's Heart, page 10
“Look, Delbert is no model citizen,” Ruth said, “but I’m his parole officer and I know him better than anyone else here. Give him one more chance. He’s close to getting a job and putting his life back in order. If he returns to prison now, nothing good will be accomplished by it.”
Prescott just looked at Ashe.
Ashe knew it was up to him. He glanced at Spencer and saw the fear and hatred mirrored there. “Let him go. He’s not important enough to worry about.”
Prescott nodded once, then looked at Spencer. “You got off lucky. But if you step out of line again, and I hear about it, it’s back to prison, clear?”
Ruth glared at Spencer. “Answer this officer’s questions,” she told him, gesturing to Nakai, “and then I’m driving you to the interview myself.”
“I really appreciate that, ma’am,” Spencer said.
“Save it. I just don’t want any more excuses from you. You’ve cost me too much time already.”
Ashe headed out the door and Casey followed.
“Okay, what’s the story there?” she asked. “Why did you leak the fact that he was an informant?”
“We have a man undercover, a Navajo cop from another part of the Rez, working a burglary ring. Spencer was about to finger him to the perps. We had to discredit him fast and also give him a reason to come to us with state’s evidence.”
“I can see why he hates your guts.”
“He’s no killer, though,” Ashe said. “He’d have backed down instead of throwing a punch. And, besides that, his shoe—”
“Size is too small. Unless he wore oversize boots with two pairs of socks just to throw us off,” Casey finished. “I recommend we keep an eye out for Spencer, anyway. He obviously has it in for you. What next? Shall we go look up Patrick Gordon?”
“I’d rather catch him later today, when he’s a bit tired. How about if we follow up on the expensive boots?”
“Good idea. Before Spencer interrupted us, I was about to say I did get that list of stores this morning.”
They spent the rest of the morning questioning clerks at the three more expensive shoe stores in the area. The boots were not a popular item because of their price. A few county officials and wealthy ranchers had bought them, but checks on those people clearly indicated they had no apparent connection to the Johnsons. At the third and last store, the clerk, a young Navajo woman, identified Captain Todacheene’s wife as a customer.
Casey looked up at Ashe as they left the store. “What do you think of that?”
“I know what you’re thinking, but I know my captain. He may wear expensive boots, and size tens as well, but he’s not our man.” Ashe wouldn’t be able to convince her so easily, he knew that, but he was certain.
As they drove away, Casey remained quiet.
“What I really need on this case in order to track down the killers, is a better feel for your family,” she said at last. “I need to know the victims in order to identify their enemies.”
“I work that way, too,” he acknowledged. “I’ll try to help you with that. I have some photo albums at home that will give you a better idea of who they were and what part they played in our community.”
“Let’s go take a look.”
As Ashe drove down the highway, his thoughts were on the woman beside him. She didn’t know it, but showing her the albums meant opening a part of himself to her, and letting her see a side of him few ever saw. Yet, once she saw his home and his simple way of life, she was sure to back away from him. Few Anglos were able to see beauty and harmony in a life-style like his unless they were raised to appreciate it. The thought saddened him, but it was for the best. Casey had no place in his life.
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG to reach his old trailer, parked in the middle of an empty field a mile from the main highway. Sunflowers and purple asters brightened the desert floor around it, their colors vibrant in the afternoon sun. A hawk cried out shrilly overhead, sending a jackrabbit scampering into a large clump of brush. Casey had never seen such a peaceful place. Everything around her seemed to belong.
She glanced at Ashe. To her, he was like a man who’d stepped out of the pages of history, his life rooted in a rich past she’d never studied in school. Tradition was a living entity here that breathed with the wind that gently shook the wild grass and flowers.
“It isn’t what you’re used to, is it?” he asked.
His hollow tone startled her and she looked at him in surprise. “It’s different here from the life I’ve known, but there’s something about it that soothes the spirit.” She shook her head. “I’m putting it badly, I know.”
As she glanced at him, she could see that her answer had disturbed him. Trying to understand him sometimes left her feeling as if she were trying to decipher some unknown code.
As they walked to the door of his home, she saw a brand-new, six-wheel extended-cab pickup truck parked beside the end of the trailer. It had fog lamps, a massive front bumper and a custom double toolbox in the lined bed.
She knew precious little about trucks, except for being able to identify makes and models as part of her job skills. Yet it didn’t take any special knowledge to know that this one, loaded with accessories, must have cost him a year’s salary. The extravagant purchase surprised her. It seemed out of character with everything she knew about Ashe. But then again, maybe that was the problem. She didn’t know him well enough yet to say for sure what was in or out of character.
“Nice truck. Had it long?” Casey asked delicately.
“Less than a month now. It still has that new smell.” Ashe smiled as he unlocked the front door of his mobile home, then gestured for her to enter. The interior was as simple as she’d expected. There was one well-worn, built-in sofa against the end wall of the small living room, and a single wooden straight-backed chair that looked as if it had been a one-of-a-kind at a yard sale. The Navajo rug that hung on the wall above a small bookcase was exquisite, however. An antique, she had no doubt.
“Have a seat,” he said, taking some photo albums from the cinder-block-and-wood-plank bookcase and joining her on the couch.
Ashe hesitated for a moment before opening the photo album. It was then that she knew he was sharing something deeply personal with her by showing her these, here in his home. The knowledge filled her with a warmth that went deeper than any physical attraction ever could. As he turned the pages, his voice resonated with love and pride. There was sorrow there, too, as he acknowledged the death of the two Anglos who’d taken his brother and him in.
Casey pointed to a photo of Nick Johnson standing beside two boys wearing football uniforms, helmets held in their hands. Physically, the two boys looked similar, but their expressions were vastly different. Ashe looked completely miserable, while the other boy wore a contented grin. “That’s your brother?”
He nodded. “That was the year he conned me into dropping soccer and going out for football. He razzed me continually about soccer—what he called a ‘wimp’ sport. So I decided to prove to him that I could do whatever he did, and better, so I tried out and made the varsity team. That year, I scored more touchdowns than any other player, Travis included.”
“But you had to play a sport you didn’t choose,” she observed with a tiny smile. She knew what it was like to feel the need to prove oneself. She’d done that most of her life.
“I only played for that one season—long enough to make my point. The following year, as a junior, I went out for soccer again. My brother was furious when I refused to sign up for football, and we got into it. He ended up with a split lip. I came out with a broken finger.” He held up his hand, showing her a crooked index finger. “It never set right because I couldn’t tell anyone about it without getting both of us into trouble.”
She smiled. No matter where one grew up, some things like sibling rivalry never changed. “Do you still find yourself competing like that with your brother?”
“Naw. My senior year in high school I finally started liking myself,” he said with a cocky grin. “I realized that I’m much more personable and better looking.” He gave Casey a teasing glance that proved the brothers’ rivalry was not dead.
“Oh, you are, are you?” She laughed. “Don’t forget ‘modest.’”
“Of course.”
As he turned the page and saw a photo of his foster mother standing next to a table filled with baked goods, he suddenly stopped speaking.
“She was beautiful,” Casey observed.
“Yes, and her beauty went deeper than the physical, too. There was a gentleness about her. That photo was taken at a fund-raiser. She’d taken the day off to work at a bake sale for our high school, even though we went to Shiprock High, not the school she ran. My brother and I went to the public school because they had the best sports programs around. But that never mattered to her. She was like that. When our team needed to raise funds, she was there. She never walked away from anyone who needed her.”
“You’re the same way,” Casey said.
He turned his gaze on her, his dark eyes piercing her with a tenderness she hadn’t expected. Her heart drummed inside her. She could feel the impact of that one look throughout her body.
“Thank you for saying that. It means more to me than you know.” Then he continued, saving her from having to comment or ask further questions. “There’s one photo I really want you to see.”
He turned the pages. “We were all there—a rare occurrence in our adult lives.” He pointed to a photo of a family gathering. “It was a credit to my foster parents that we all managed to make it here for Fox’s eighteenth birthday. We knew it meant a lot to them to have us all together that day, so my brother and I pulled out all the stops. Travis managed to trade assignments and con his commander into giving him the leave he needed. I was supposed to attend a law-enforcement seminar, but managed to find someone else to take my place.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Later that day, they told us that they never doubted we’d be there. They knew my brother would bulldoze over any obstacle, and I’d find a way to come.”
Ashe closed the album. “They weren’t our real parents, but they sure took the time to know us. We were accepted and valued for who and what we were. When we got into trouble, which was often, they were always there to put us back on the right track. Yet when they needed us the most, neither of us were there for them. And now their daughter is missing. I don’t know how yet, but I will find her.” He stood, walked to the window, and stared outside. “I failed my foster parents. I won’t fail Fox, too.”
Casey came up behind Ashe, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Your foster mother did not see you as a failure, and neither should you. Remember her last words. She loved all of you, and that love was as total as it was unconditional.”
He turned around slowly. “Once again, thank you for reminding me of something I should know—that love’s demands are simple and gentle in nature.”
Ashe threaded his fingers through Casey’s hair, tilting her head back to meet his descending lips. His kiss was tender and unassuming, as if he were seeking nothing more from her than a bit of warmth to ease the chill in his soul. She couldn’t pull away. She didn’t want to. Desire swept through her, awakening emotions hidden deep within her.
Only then did Casey realize the danger and reluctantly eased out of his embrace. If she did anything that would interfere with the job she’d been sent to do, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. Her work was everything to her—or, at least, it had been until now.
She moved to the window and stared at the shiny new pickup outside. Questions filled her mind. Instinct told her that Ashe was an honest cop and could be trusted, but experience told her not to discount hard facts. Had Ashe been bribed to sell out Katrina, and was the payment for that treachery parked outside? She couldn’t afford to lower her guard around him until she found out.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quiet.
She looked down at the strong fingers that rested gently on her arm, trying to smother the fires his touch had sparked. His strength could be tempered with exquisite tenderness.
Ashe’s phone suddenly rang. Casey sighed softly as he moved across the room, glad to have more distance between them.
Ashe picked up the receiver and listened. “Wait—” he said abruptly. A moment later, he hung up the phone and turned to look at her.
His face had grown a shade lighter, but there was an easing of tension around his eyes as well as an urgency she couldn’t explain reflected there.
“What happened?” she asked. “Who was that?”
“Fox.”
Casey felt her skin prickle. There would be trouble now. Apprehension knifed through her, slicing past her defenses. As she faced him, it felt as if a cold wind were blowing clear into the marrow of her bones.
Chapter Eight
As Ashe looked into Casey’s eyes, an instinctive knowledge knifed at his gut. He’d expected Casey to share his excitement at the good news that Fox was alive but, instead, all he could see on her face was apprehension. The incredible relief he’d felt when he’d heard his foster sister’s voice gave way to the need to have other pressing questions answered.
He had no doubt now that he’d been right about Casey; she was hiding something and had been all along. He had to learn what that was and soon, but at the moment, there was something much more important for them to do.
“What did Fox say?” Casey asked, her voice taut. “Did she tell you where she was?”
“No. The phone went dead all of a sudden. All she managed to tell me was that she was all right and that I shouldn’t worry.”
“Well, then, she’s obviously hiding out somewhere, and has been staying out of touch, maybe to protect herself. This should set your mind at ease. Now we can concentrate on the murders.”
Ashe gave Casey an openly incredulous look. “You’re not serious, are you? Her call tells me nothing except that she’s alive. For all I know, she could have been forced to make that phone call just to get me to ease up on my search.”
“That’s a possibility, I suppose,” she conceded. “So, what do you propose to do now?”
“Track her down.” He punched the code on his phone that redialed the number of the last caller. “There isn’t any answer. I don’t have caller ID here, either, so I’m going to have to call a friend of mine at the phone company and get some help.”
“You do that. In the meantime, I’ll go check with Bureau sources and see if there’s a faster way to find where the last call originated.” She started toward the door, then stopped. “I’m going to need a ride back to my car.”
“Right.”
Halfway to the station, Ashe spotted John Nakai’s vehicle, and signaled for the officer to pull over. Arranging for Nakai to take Casey the rest of the way, Ashe continued to the phone company alone.
It took him over an hour to locate his friend at the phone company and get the information he needed. Armed with an address, Ashe drove to the Roadrunner Motel in Bloom-field, thirty minutes away. On the way he tried to contact Casey, but his police radio was inoperable in that stretch of countryside, and his cell phone wasn’t getting through to Casey’s, either.
Ashe parked across the street from the motel and walked to the phone booth that stood at the corner of the building. There was no sign of Fox now. Ashe went directly to the motel, fished out a photo of Katrina from his wallet, and showed it to the clerk. “Have you seen this woman?”
After a moment the clerk, a man in his early sixties with thinning hair, handed it back to Ashe with a shrug. “We’ve had only one couple check in and out recently, but I never saw the woman up close. My vision isn’t that great at distances so all I know is that she was wearing one of those floppy hats. I can’t even tell you her hair color. The couple left about twenty minutes ago. The man was an Anglo in his mid-fifties. He had on a Rockies baseball cap and dark glasses, and was clean-shaven. I’d recognize him again, I think. Got any more pictures?”
“No, sorry. I hope to, soon. May I see your records?”
“Sure, but it won’t do you any good. All I’ve got is a signature and an address, and lots of those are phony nowadays. Our guests always pay in advance, and this guy used cash, no credit card. We don’t take checks.”
Ashe glanced at the sign-in sheet. All that was written there was an entry for a Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Not exactly original.
“I do remember something else about the guy, come to think of it. He wore a blue windbreaker, and those kind of thin driving gloves. I’ve never seen those worn by anyone around here except on a golf course.”
“Me, neither.” It was, however, a great way not to leave prints. “Can I see their room?”
“Oh, sure.” He threw a room key across to Ashe. “It’s room ten. Make sure it’s locked when you leave.”
As Ashe walked down the sidewalk, he looked around, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched. He took in his surroundings with methodical’ precision, but he couldn’t see anyone. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end as he unlocked the door to room 10 and went inside.
The place was fairly tidy, considering they’d just checked out. Ashe looked at the unmade bed, then carefully picked two hair strands from the pillow. Both were long and blond like Fox’s. He folded them into a piece of paper from his pocket notebook, then placed the paper carefully into his shirt pocket. Searching the room further, he discovered there was no trash—not even a discarded candy wrapper—in the two wastebaskets. Something told him that the male occupant had deliberately taken the trash with him. The only clue he had about the man who’d been here were two short, dark hairs in the bathroom sink.
Ashe considered everything he’d learned, trying to come up with some answers. Fox had sounded rushed on the telephone, but not afraid. He knew her well enough to know the difference. As he stepped back out of the room, the clerk he’d spoken to came jogging up to him, breathing hard.
