by Rachel Grant
Her brow furrowed in exasperation. Mission accomplished.
“Correction,” she said, “Edward Drake owns a portion of the company, but Senator Talon is the majority shareholder.” She held up two fingers. “Two: the senator doesn’t run the company. Joseph Talon, Jr., has been running the company since his father became senator.”
“JT,” Lee said, deciding to raise his IQ by a few points.
“What?”
“Joseph Talon, Jr., goes by JT.”
She cocked her head to the side in question.
He grinned and pointed to the ten-year-old TIME magazine cover that had been enlarged and mounted on the break room wall. JT smiled with confidence next to a headline that read: MEET JT TALON, THE 27-YEAR-OLD WUNDERKIND CEO WHO TRANSFORMED HIS FATHER’S COMPANY.
Erica’s lips quirked in the smallest of smiles. He felt a miniscule thawing of the frost that had formed when he’d called her beautiful. “Which takes me to item three.” She held up three fingers and continued ticking off the facts. “Because JT runs the company, the senator hasn’t made a management decision at Talon & Drake in twelve years.”
He wasn’t surprised that fact was important enough to earn a spot on her list. It had been hashed over by the media ad nauseam. If the senator were involved with running the international engineering firm, he’d be in violation of Senate ethics.
“Four: the company holds several Department of Defense contracts for work in Iraq and Afghanistan. Five: the senator’s rivals for his party’s presidential nomination are comparing Talon & Drake to Halliburton and saying he voted to invade Iraq so he could profit from the war.”
Her voice dropped to a less teacherly, more solemn tone. “And the last reason Talon & Drake has been on the news lately: one of our employees was killed in Baghdad last week by an IED.”
And there it was—his real reason for being here. JT Talon had received an e-mail claiming Talon & Drake employees were smuggling something—probably artifacts—out of Iraq. The informant died an hour later. Lee needed to find the smugglers and expose the killer. And he needed to do it before it became a scandal that would ruin Joseph Talon’s presidential campaign.
AS ERICA DROVE HER OLD Honda wagon down the road that marked the boundary of the Menanichoch Reservation, she ignored both her disturbingly handsome passenger and the pressing fear Jake’s e-mail had caused. Instead she focused on the remnants that indicated the land had been owned and occupied by the army until the mid-1990s. Hidden by the roadside was an old sign covered with vines and shot with bullet holes; the faded lettering announced the main entrance to Fort Belmont was a quarter mile ahead.
She knew Sam Riversong and Joseph Talon had struggled for years to get the federal government to recognize the Menanichoch Tribe. Five years after that success, they convinced the army to close Fort Belmont and return the land to the tribe.
Erica parked on the street in front of the house that represented the first step in her plan to rescue the artifacts and return them to the Mexican government. She looked past Lee and stared at the house, excitement coursing through her. “This is it,” she said softly.
Lee’s profile was all she could see as he gazed at the house, and she wondered what he thought of it. Finally, he let out a low whistle and said, “Whoa.”
She smiled. “Not what you expected?” She loved everything about the funky two-story, flat-roofed, box-shaped home. She handed him the photolog and got out of the car. “Write down what I tell you.” Camera in hand, she snapped a picture and then checked the image. “Photo 26: Thermo-Con house south façade. Don’t forget to include the date.”
They moved to the west façade, and she took another picture.
“Which side is the front?” he asked.
“All of them. Or none, I suppose.” Each side of the house contained a door and small porch, making it look as if there were four front sides. In addition, the structure had off-kilter windows of different sizes. Nothing was symmetrical or balanced, giving an almost deranged appearance.
“This was built by the military?” he said with disbelief.
“That’s one of the questions we need to answer.” She smiled, strangely pleased by his reaction to the house. “We have two newspaper articles, both published in 1952, but neither article says who developed Thermo-Con, or why. All we know is this house was supposed to be a prototype for military housing.”
“So what, exactly, is our job?”
“We need to answer several research questions. For starters, we want to find out who built the house on Fort Belmont, and why.”
“I don’t get the connection between Fort Belmont and the Menanichoch Tribe.”
“This land belonged to the Menanichoch Tribe until 1935, when the tribe lost federal recognition and the army took the land and built Fort Belmont. Ten years ago, the base was shut down through the Base Realignment and Closure program—BRAC for short—and the Menanichoch got their land back.”
“Why are we writing an environmental assessment?”
“The house is eligible for listing in the National Register of Historic Places and needs major repairs. Under BRAC, environmental and historic preservation laws kick in, and they require an EA before the work can be completed.”
He stared at the house, and she had the sense he was taking in much more than the structure before him; then his mouth curved in a warm, full smile that lit his green eyes. “The house is cool.”
Her belly fluttered, and she didn’t know if the sensation was caused by his smile or the fact that he appreciated the house as much as she did. She turned away. She needed to work without escaping into girlish fantasies based on magnificent pecs and a shared taste in architecture.
His good looks explained his lack of direction. Wealthy pretty boys like him had everything handed to them and didn’t know how to work for a living. He was the opposite of everything that was important to her. “Yes, well, archaeologists research quirky houses. We rarely travel to exotic places. And we never look for treasure or get shot at by bad guys.” Except for the one time in which I did all of those things.
His smile faded. “Damn, I wish you’d told me that before I bought my whip and fedora.” He rounded the corner of the house, anger showing in his quick stride.
Guilt swept her for insulting him when he’d done nothing but show enthusiasm for the project. She hurried after him, intending to apologize, but after turning the corner, she saw a plumber’s truck and came to a dead stop. “They’re not supposed to be working yet.” She walked briskly toward the nearest door and entered the kitchen. “Hello? Is there someone here?” If they’d started work on the house without a signed EA, she would have the perfect excuse to complain to the tribal office and Sam Riversong.
She glanced at Lee, who’d followed her inside. His mouth was set in a firm line.
“I’m sorry I was bitchy,” she said.
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
A voice called out from the basement. At the top of the basement staircase, the smell of something rotten made her gag. Lee made a face and covered his mouth, then said, “By all means, ladies first.” She saw the smile behind his hand.
She smiled back, accepting her penance, and led the way. In the basement, two men in dirty coveralls were bent over an opening in a corner. “Are you here for the house rehabilitation project?” she asked. “Work isn’t supposed to begin until next week. The EA has to be signed first.”
One of the men glanced over his shoulder at her; his dark beard was shot with the same gray that covered his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. We were called here to fix the broken sump.”
“Smells like something died in here,” Lee said.
“Rats,” the younger plumber responded. “The sump was broken for weeks before anyone noticed, and rats were floating in the muck we pumped out this morning.”
Her excuse to complain to the tribe suffered the same fate as the rats; no one could blame them for fixing a flooded basement before the EA was signed
. “We’re from Talon & Drake, the engineering firm handling the rehab on the building. We’re here to photograph the house.”
The bearded plumber scanned her from head to foot. “You’re an engineer?” His disbelief was evident.
What decade did this guy live in? “No. I’m an archaeologist.”
“So you’re the engineer,” the man said to Lee, obviously relieved natural order wasn’t in jeopardy.
“Me?” Lee squeaked out the word like a timid mouse, making it hard for her to keep a straight face. “No. I’m her lackey.”
They headed back up the stairs, and when they were out of earshot, she said, “Thanks.”
He grinned. “You owe me. When do I get to collect?”
She rolled her eyes. “When you’re my boss.”
His grin widened. “With my connections, two weeks should do it.”
“With my luck, you’ll be like JT Talon and get the job because you’re somebody’s son.”
He stopped. “You don’t think he deserved the job?”
“He was twenty-five—your age—when he became head of the company. You can’t convince me that decision was anything but nepotism.” She opened a cupboard but saw nothing of interest in the decaying wood. “It doesn’t matter, really. By all accounts, JT’s done a great job.” She paused, then added, “I guess I don’t like nepotism because I’m not in a position to benefit from it.”
“So what now?” he asked, glancing around the kitchen.
“Aside from taking pictures, we’re here to poke around. I’m looking for anything we can Google to find out more about the house. Names, dates. Scraps of paper left behind the stove. Nobody knows anything about this house.”
They wandered through the rooms, peeking in closets, looking in drawers. She took pictures, all the while hoping to find something—anything—she could use to ask for access to the tribal archives. All she found was disappointment.
They were getting ready to leave when one of the plumbers called out, “Yo! Archaeologist-Lady. Got an artifact for you.”
“Great,” she said. “Just watch. He’s going to show me a rock and claim it must be a tool because it fits in his hand so well.”
Lee touched her arm. “If I have to demean myself to make you look good again, my price will go up.”
“Eh. You’re cheap.”
He laughed. “How can you be so sure?”
She smiled. “You’re a guy.” She descended the stairs.
The bearded plumber held something brown and sodden out to her. “Check this out.”
At first she thought it was a piece of wood, but the way the wet lump disintegrated in her fingers made her examine it more closely. “It’s bone.” A bubble of hope built inside her. This she could use. “Where did you find it?”
“Beneath the old pump. There’s more down there.”
She bent over the hole in the floor and saw a pile of friable material poking out of the saturated soil. The bubble expanded, near to bursting. “Lee, can you get my dig kit, please? It’s in the car, the blue backpack.”
She reached down and touched a visible bone fragment. It could be very old. Being buried below the water table, the preservation would be excellent as long as it wasn’t removed from the wet soil conditions that had preserved it for so long.
Lee returned. She grabbed her trowel and scraped the sidewall to get a clean view of the drained soil. No sign of a burial pit, but the fluctuating water level could have wiped away evidence of a pit centuries ago.
“What kind of bone is it?” Lee asked.
She turned over another clump of soil, popping out a bone. “Could be anything from canine to human. Hand me a ziplock. They’re in the front pocket.”
“What’s a ziplock?”
“A plastic bag.”
“Oh. Thaaat ziplock.”
The plumbers snickered, and Lee winked at her. She turned back to the pit to hide her smile. He was quick—and funny. There might be more to Lee Scott than her initial assessment of pretty-boy career student.
She dropped the one-inch segment of bone inside the bag, packed damp soil around it, and turned to the plumbers. “Can you fix the sump without disturbing the bones?”
“I think so. The new pump is smaller than the old one.”
“You can dig deeper and try to find an identifiable piece,” Lee said.
“We don’t have an excavation permit, and this could be a prehistoric Indian burial. We need to check with the tribe and see how they want to handle this.” She faced the plumbers. “Please leave the bones alone, in case they’re human.”
Finally she had what she wanted: an excuse to meet with tribal chairman Sam Riversong.
CHAPTER THREE
LEE WIPED SWEATY PALMS on his pants as he sat next to Erica in the tribal waiting room. One question haunted him: would the Menanichoch chairman recognize him?
He’d met Riversong once, twenty years ago, when he was twelve years old, leaving a minute but devastating possibility Riversong would remember him and blow his cover.
He looked around the deluxe waiting room. In the years since their last meeting, the tribe had changed. They now had a reservation and a casino, and Riversong’s success as tribal chairman was visible in his designer office suite, which combined the posh of Wall Street with the playful perks of a late-nineties dot-com. The room was filled with ping-pong, air hockey, and pool tables, which seemed disturbingly quiet to Lee as he waited and worried.
Erica tapped her foot and clutched the ziplock in a tight fist. She was anxious too, and he wanted to know why. Maybe if he got her to relax, she’d tell him why the bone was so important to her. Air hockey or pool? He’d enjoyed watching the way she moved in the gym. Pool, definitely.
He stood and grabbed a triangle, racked the balls, and selected a cue. “Nice,” he said as he admired the expensive stick. With a smooth, swift shot, he started the game. A solid went into the corner pocket. The cue ball rolled into position, and he sank a second solid. Next he winged a ball so it would leave the cue behind a striped ball in perfect alignment for the side pocket. No one could resist the call of that easy shot. “Your turn.”
She looked uncertain for a moment, then set the ziplock bag on a table and grabbed a stick. “I haven’t played in a long time.”
“Aim low.”
She looked at him, her mouth curved in a playful smile. “I know. I went to college—not as long as you, of course—but I know how to play pool.” She made the shot, aiming low to create backspin so the cue didn’t follow the nine into the pocket. She sank three more balls before her turn ended with the cue ball the length of the table away from a good shot at a solid.
“Damn. You’re good.” He studied the table. He knew exactly where he wanted to leave the cue ball to force her to attempt a behind-the-back shot. He missed his long shot on purpose and placed the ball strategically.
She went for the tricky shot and looked good with her back arched over the cue. But her next shot was even better. She leaned across the table, hips pressed to the rail, ass angled upward as she rose on her toes. He became instantly hard.
Damn. He was a fool playing with fire.
Movement caught his eye, and Sam Riversong entered the room. He must have witnessed Lee’s gaze transfixed on Erica’s ass, because a knowing smile spread across the chairman’s face. Busted.
She sank her ball.
“Nice shot,” Riversong said.
Erica whirled in surprise. “Mr. Riversong. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here.” She returned her cue stick to the wall rack.
“No, finish your game,” the elderly tribal member said. “We can talk here. Looks like you’re about to wipe the table with this man’s ego anyway.”
On Lee’s turn, he sank one to save his pride, but the stick slipped on the ball when Erica introduced him using his full name.
Would his last name jog the man’s memory? His mother’s last name had been Scott for only two years before changing to husband number two’s
name. The man would only recognize the name if he had a long memory for details.
But the moment passed without incident, and Erica took her turn. She sank the eight ball and won. The chairman challenged Erica to a game. Lee did his best to fade into the background while they played and discussed the Thermo-Con house.
Riversong lined up a shot and said, “Why should I care about the bones under the sump?”
“I suspect they’re human. They could be a prehistoric burial.”
“They won’t be disturbed anymore. The pump is fixed.”
“From what I’ve read of the rehabilitation plan, the basement is going to be revamped. The sump fix is a temporary measure to end the flooding, but what if you want to make more dramatic changes? The fact that there could be a burial there would severely limit what you could do, unless you plan ahead. It’s possible the army placed the house in the middle of a prehistoric burial ground. In the fifties, everyone would have looked the other way.”
“So what do you propose?”
“I’d like to have the bone tested to determine the age and if it is human or not.”
“And if the bone isn’t human?”
“Then we assume we found the remains of a prehistoric dinner.”
“And if it is human?”
“We’ll dig shovel tests in the yard to determine if there are other burials in the vicinity.”
Riversong was silent for a moment, considering. Finally, he said, “No. We should let sleeping dogs lie.”
Erica lined up the cue and the eight ball. “I’ve read the tribe’s agreement with the government, which requires you to develop management plans for the Menanichoch land,” she said. “You need to know where your cultural resources—including burials—are. Your land wasn’t set aside by a treaty, so it isn’t technically a reservation. The government could use any perceived mismanagement to nullify your agreement and take the land back.” She paused, never taking her eyes off the table. “The tribe would lose everything, including the casino.”
Shock kicked Lee in the gut as Riversong’s jaw clenched and eyes hardened. Erica had just threatened a man who ate shortcake like her for breakfast.
