Twilight Warrior

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Twilight Warrior Page 7

by Aimée Thurlo


  “I’m impressed. The only thing I’m good for in the kitchen is peeling back the corners of microwave TV dinners,” she said, sighing happily as he placed the sheet into the preheated oven.

  He smiled and set a small timer. “I’ve had more time on my hands since my brother moved out, and I’ve learned that cooking helps me unwind.”

  “I can’t even imagine your brother and you not living under the same roof. You two were practically inseparable in high school.”

  “I’ve grown up—in case you haven’t noticed,” he said, chuckling.

  She’d noticed all right. He was serious eye candy, all hard ridges and planes. Yet what attracted her most went well beyond that. He had a maturity that came from having walked through life’s underbelly, and the inner strength he’d found there had turned him into one helluva man.

  “Living alone has a good side. My brother had a way of turning the house into chaos. I like things in order,” he said. “After a day of dealing with criminals, I also like to be able to wind down at my own pace and not talk to anyone. I find peace in the silence.”

  She said nothing for several moments. “To me, home’s just a place to crash. I had a potted plant once, but I kept forgetting to water it so I gave it away. One of the best things about living in my condo is that they take care of all the upkeep and maintenance.”

  “And you’re happy there?” The timer on the oven went off and he walked to the stove.

  She shrugged. “It suits my needs.”

  He brought the hot rolls to the table and gestured for her to help herself. As she sank her teeth into one, she smiled blissfully. “Wow. I think I love you.”

  He laughed.

  When Crusher came over, Travis halved one of the rolls and gave it to the dog, who gulped it down instantly.

  “You really don’t fit anyone’s mold, do you? Everything about you screams ultramacho, yet you’re a fabulous cook and keep a great house,” she said. “You’d make somebody a great wife—well, a traditional one.”

  He laughed, not the least bit threatened by her teasing. “Most of the great chefs are men. But enough about me. What about your place? Do you prefer everything in its place and orderly or are you more laid-back about the whole thing?”

  “I don’t have a lot of stuff, so there’s no great mess and I can usually find whatever I’m searching for. I’m not much for a silent household though. No matter what time it is, if I’m awake either the radio or the TV is on. It’s a good thing that the condo has thick walls, since there’s nothing routine about my hours. My schedule constantly varies. That’s one of the perks that come with the job.”

  “What do you consider the biggest perk?” he asked.

  She considered it before answering. “What I like most about working with NSI is the freedom to call my own shots. As long as I build a case that’ll stand up in court, or that meets the needs of a client, no one cares how I get it done.”

  He nodded. “When I first returned stateside, I seriously considered working as a private investigator.”

  “What made you choose the police department instead?” she asked.

  “I felt that I could do more good there. I didn’t want to limit myself to helping only those people who could afford to have their hózhó restored.”

  “The…what?”

  “It’s the state of mind that comes from achieving a proper relationship with everything around you. It requires living in harmony with your surroundings and restoring the balance that allows you to walk in beauty.”

  After they finished the rolls, and a skillet full of scrambled eggs and green chili that Travis whipped up next, she helped him clean up.

  “Ready to go to work?” he asked, grabbing his coffee and cocking his head toward the living room. “I’ve got a special password and permission to access at least some of the records we want.”

  As they passed the sitting area, she saw Crusher lying next to several toys arranged in a little pile. One, in particular, caught her attention. “You need to give that guy a new glove to chew on. That thing looks gnarly.”

  Travis glanced over. “I know. It’s stained, dirty, torn and falling apart. When I rescued him from the roadside, it was the only thing I had for him to play with and carry around. Later, when I bought him some tug toys and a rawhide, I slipped the glove into the trash but he picked it back out. He won’t play with it but every time I throw it out, he gets upset. So I quit trying.”

  “Why don’t you buy him a new one and offer to trade?” she said.

  “I did but he wasn’t interested.”

  Travis walked to his desk and she followed, her focus back on him. Everything from Travis’s shoulders on down was hard and toned. She sighed softly and heard him chuckle.

  “So I’ve got a pulse,” she muttered sourly.

  “So do I, so watch it,” he answered in a quiet voice, glancing back at her.

  As their gazes met, she felt that spark of raw feelings that was always there between them, kept in check only through sheer force of will. “We can’t get distracted,” she said.

  “I agree,” he said, sitting down behind the small pine desk.

  Focusing on the screen, he fired up the computer. “I haven’t got clearance to get the specifics of the Flagstaff case files other than what’s in RMIN, but we can access the two in state files using Report Review, a local crime database.”

  Things went slow as he logged in to the various programs, so she went back to where Crusher lay. Taking the old glove, she glanced around. “Needle and thread?”

  “First drawer to your left,” he gestured toward an end table.

  She sat down next to the dog and sewed the cloth finger back on. “Here you go, Mister C.”

  “Mister C?” Travis repeated, grinning.

  “It’s a nicer name when he’s off the clock,” Laura said.

  The dog sniffed the glove, then placed it exactly where it had been before.

  “I told you, he won’t play with it,” Travis said.

  “Maybe it brings back memories of a time when he was alone and afraid,” she said, almost in a whisper. “So it became something he can’t let go of but doesn’t want to dwell on either.”

  The dog looked up at her as if sensing that, in that way, she was a kindred spirit. Then, with a sigh, he lay his head back down.

  “Maybe we’ll both live long enough to forget the bad and hold on to the good,” she whispered as she got up.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you with the Flagstaff P.D.?” she asked, joining Travis.

  He shook his head. “I’ve put in the request. Now it’s mostly a matter of patience.” He called up Melinda Chavez’s file, the victim in Bloomfield. “She was seventeen and lived at home with her parents. She was found naked inside her own bedroom, strangled, a cloth still reeking of ether near the bed. The police determined that the perp choked her with his bare hands.”

  “That’s not an identical match to the M.O. used in the two other cases but it’s close. The ether’s the link. Did the police find the source?”

  He studied the file. “The biggest supplier in the area is in Three Rivers. The owner of the company allowed the Bloomfield police to take a look at his invoices and inventory. They found nothing unusual there. Shortly after that the Bloomfield P.D. got a request for information from the feds—the IRS to be specific—regarding the proprietor of the supply company. They’ve got an undercover investigation underway.”

  “Crimes are often committed to cover other crimes, but I can’t see how business or tax issues would link to these murders,” Laura said.

  “I’m with you on that,” he said.

  “Was there any article of clothing, something personal, missing from that crime scene?”

  “There’s no record of it,” he said, scrolling down.

  “Serial killers like trophies. I can’t see him not taking something—even if it’s inconsequential. If we could figure out what this guy collects, that might give us some useful in
formation about how he thinks.”

  Travis skimmed the report, then finally shook his head. “I don’t see anything like that listed here.” Travis leaned back and regarded her thoughtfully. “I think you may be trying too hard to make things fit instead of just looking at the evidence dispassionately. For one, serial killers don’t usually change their M.O.”

  “True, but our suspect hasn’t really changed the basics. He has consensual sex with the victim, uses the ether and then strangles the victim. If anything, I’d say the killer has altered his methods to increase efficiency.” Her voice broke on the last syllable and a tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly.

  Travis pulled her into his arms and, holding her tenderly, brushed a kiss on her forehead. “It’s okay,” he murmured.

  Burying her head against his shoulder, she gladly took the comfort he offered. “I miss her,” she said, speaking of Nancy. “I hadn’t seen her in ages, but I know she and I would have become close friends again. The last time we spoke on the phone, it was as if nothing had ever changed. We were still best buds, then in a heartbeat it all ended.”

  The tenderness she found in his arms soothed the pain in her heart. Over the years, she’d grown self-sufficient, not needing anyone else, but every so often she needed…more.

  Almost as if he’d read her mind, he bent down and took her mouth in a gentle kiss.

  It was easy to give in to the warmth, to forget and just feel. For those precious seconds, she wasn’t a P.I. and he a cop. She was just a woman in the arms of her man.

  “I’ve got you,” he murmured, leaving a string of soft kisses down her neck.

  That heat, so comforting at first, quickly grew in intensity, pushing them closer to the edge.

  Forcing herself to do what was necessary, she stepped out of his embrace. As she did, she felt a renewed ache deep inside her.

  Her heart pounding, she stood before Travis. Raw desire shimmered in his eyes.

  Travis Blacksheep, the man who never acted on impulse, had a wildness hidden inside him few people had ever seen. Beneath all that control beat a heart filled with passion.

  Chapter Eight

  Travis returned to his desk after a moment. “I’ll help you all I can, but you’re too close to this case and you know it. The only way this’ll work is if you trust my lead all the way.”

  “I will,” she said. “When I looked into what you’d done with your life since high school, I knew you were the partner for me.”

  “You ran a background check on me?” Travis asked, more curious than annoyed.

  She considered denying it but it seemed pointless. “Yes. I knew you’d once been a kid who liked thinking things through before acting but I had to know more. Adults usually turn out to be like the kids they were, only more so, but I was after a killer and I needed to be sure.”

  “The most important thing I can offer you is balance—a counter to your bull-in-the-china-shop compulsiveness.”

  She nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

  He looked back at the screen. “We need to talk to the detectives who worked the local cases. We want gut feelings and theories, not just images and summaries. Let’s see what kind of cooperation I can get for us,” he said, picking up the phone.

  Travis called the Bloomfield police first. A moment later he was connected to the detective in charge. It was a small department and Travis wasn’t surprised to hear a familiar voice on the other end. He put the phone on speaker so Laura could listen in.

  “Hey, old son,” Detective John Sanders said. “Haven’t heard from you in ages. What’s happening?”

  “I’m looking into the Melinda Chavez murder, searching for similarities between that case and two other killings. But the report I’ve got online is short on specifics,” Travis said.

  “Let me see who took lead on that case.”

  Travis heard the sound of strokes on a keyboard, then John spoke again.

  “Jim Evans was the investigating officer, but he had a heart attack about five months ago. His wife found him at the breakfast table, dead as a doornail. I don’t think the guy ever even knew what hit him.”

  “It’s not a bad way to go,” Travis commented.

  “All things considered, I guess not.” John paused, typing again. “I just checked the Report Review. If you’re focusing on strangulation murders involving young women, check out the Eva Mae Yazzie case. She’s the woman recently killed outside Shiprock, on the Navajo Nation. We got a call from the tribal police a few days ago. Detective Nakai found similarities between the Chavez murder and the Shiprock crime. He suspects we’ve got a repeat killer working the area. Maybe a serial killer.”

  “You think Nakai might be on to something?” Travis asked, looking up at Laura, who was nodding.

  There was a long silence at the other end. “Maybe,” John said at last. “There are similarities—C.O.D. is strangulation, one’s a high-school basketball star the other’s a coach and there’s the ether, too. I’d say it’s a theory worth pursuing.”

  Travis ended the call, picked up his badge and gun, then stopped to grab his Stetson on the way out. “Let’s go to the Rez and pay Detective Nakai a visit. Face-to-face we’re more likely to get what we need.”

  As they stepped through the front door, Crusher picked up a braided rope and hurried to join Travis.

  As they reached the vehicles, Laura pointed to her sedan. “The car’s got a more comfortable ride than the SUV. Do you want to use it instead?”

  “No. The SUV’s got all-wheel drive and on the Rez that’ll come in handy, particularly during the summer monsoon season. Crusher will have more room, too,” he said. “Leave your car here and ride with me.”

  The highway to Shiprock and the Navajo Nation’s police station led west, running along the San Juan River valley. Cultivated fields and orchards soon gave way to the drier, more inhospitable land of the reservation. It was there that many of the Diné, the Navajo People, lived.

  “When I was younger, I wanted to put as much distance between me and the Rez as possible. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing but poverty here. But after I was shipped overseas, I found myself really missing home,” Travis said in a faraway voice.

  “I wanted to get away, too, but it was because of Mom. I swore I’d never be like her.” She paused. Eventually she continued in a heavy voice, “It wasn’t until after she passed away and I went through her things that I realized how lonely she’d been all her life.”

  “Don’t blame yourself for that. Loneliness isn’t linked to the number of people around you,” he said slowly. “It’s how many you choose to let in.”

  She nodded slowly. “The crazy thing is that I spent most of my life trying not to be like her, but in a lot of ways, our lives aren’t that different. I have a career, but it’s one that forces me to keep people at bay, so the outcome’s the same.”

  Her mother’s sudden heart attack had stolen all hope of bridging the gap that had separated them. Death was the ultimate cheat. It had cheated her out of reconnecting with Nancy. She could accept that her mother’s time had come—but Nancy’s hadn’t. She missed her friend and all the could-haves they might have shared. Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to blink and let Travis see how much the memories hurt.

  “In the ways that count most I’m as alone as Mom ever was.” She suddenly realized that she’d spoken the words out loud, but it was too late to take them back.

  “You’re not alone,” Travis said. “You’ve got me.”

  Crusher barked as if emphasizing the point, adding himself to the list.

  She smiled. “Thanks, guys.”

  Travis said nothing. He kept his eyes on the traffic as they dropped down into the valley from a low-lying plateau west of Hogback.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I’ve had Anglo friends tell me that they’re alone before, but that’s a hard thing for any Navajo to understand. We’re part of our mother’s clan and our father�
��s. That’s even how we introduce ourselves.”

  “I remember. The first time we met you gave me your name and told me which clans you belonged to,” she said.

  “Even back then, in what, the seventh grade, I never saw myself as separate from our traditions. My brother wanted no part of the old ways, but I knew I was more than just an Anglo name. That’s why I’d always add that I was of the Living Arrow People and born for the Black Sheep People. The first is my mother’s clan, the second my father’s. That’s how we got our last name. It was those connections that helped me stay centered.”

  “I hated labels of any kind, particularly back then. Labels…hurt.”

  “Not all. Your friend was the school’s star female athlete, and she loved the attention,” Travis said. “Did she keep playing sports, do you know?”

  “She’d joined a local softball league. She was also a semester away from getting her degree in Physical Education. She wanted to teach.”

  They were just a mile east of the town of Shiprock when they heard a 10-83, “officer in trouble,” call come over the radio. Every officer in the vicinity would respond, but they were on the reservation, and the closest tribal officer could be a half hour or more away.

  “I’ve got his twenty,” Travis said, referring to the officer’s location. “We’re close by, so I’m responding.”

  Travis called in, then switched to a tactical frequency and spoke directly to the detective who’d put out the call.

  “This is Detective Nakai of the Tribal Police,” the man said, giving Travis directions to his current location. “The subject is armed.”

  “Nakai?” Laura asked after Travis signed off. “That’s the guy we were going to talk to?”

  “Yeah.”

  She helped him position the emergency light on the dashboard. “I heard the overall directions but I never got a street name. Did you?”

  He shook his head. “There are no streets there.”

  A quarter mile farther west, Travis turned off onto a dirt road. After crossing a small bridge over an irrigation ditch, the path quickly deteriorated. The bumps and deep holes in the road made her hold on tight to the door handle. Even so, she hit her head on the roof twice. Crusher, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the ride.

 

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