Hearts of the Missing

by Carol Potenza

  “Dax.” She kept her expression relaxed and pleasant.

  “Nicky. You’ve only become more beautiful since I last saw you. It’s been, what, two years?” His smile was wistful, but his gaze roved possessively over her neck and breasts.

  “Since I graduated from BIA training and was promoted to agent.”

  “I’m glad I could help you with that,” he said.

  A small flame of anger ignited. She placed her hands flat on the table and leaned forward.

  “First of all, it was part of the settlement. Second, I didn’t need your help. I earned my place there two years earlier than we’d agreed upon.” She sucked in a deep, settling breath.

  “Of course,” he said soothingly, but she could see a mocking glint in his eyes.

  “Why am I here, Dax? What’s so important and so secret that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

  “Nicky!” he chided, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. “Can’t two old love … friends meet for dinner and talk about good times past?”

  The curtains swished open and a waiter rolled in a cart with an iced bottle of champagne and the mouthwatering smell of steaks.

  Nicky tried to pull away, but Dax clamped his fingers around her wrist.

  “I remembered what you like … to eat,” he murmured provocatively, and grinned as she irritably snatched her hand back.

  The waiter placed their plates before them and disappeared through the curtains.

  A reluctant smile tugged her lips.

  “Ass. You always did know how to get to me.”

  “Eat your steak. I told them rare.” He gave her a genuine smile, and cut into his.

  “I ate before I came.”

  His smile froze. “Too bad. They do a mean steak here.”

  Nicky looked around the alcove. “What is this place?”

  “A place that caters to celebrities and politicians,” he said between bites. “Discreet. I’ve used it a few times before in the past when something … delicate came up.”

  She could imagine.

  Carefully, he put down his silverware.

  “Why do you avoid me? What we had was great. What we could still have.”

  Nicky gave a snort, and he frowned.

  “Seriously, Dax? Have you seriously forgotten what happened?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  She interrupted him, her voice sharp. “Your wife came to my house—”

  “Fiancée,” he corrected.

  “Oh. Excuse me. Your fiancée came to my house, poisoned my dog, and tried to kill me.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t leave her for you. Her mental state was too delicate. She’s better now. She’s gotten help since then.” But as he said it, his gaze slid away.

  “Because it was mandated in the settlement,” Nicky snapped. “So she wouldn’t go to jail for attempted murder.”

  Not that it would’ve ever happened. Nicky had gotten a stomachful of the justice system back then. Her idealistic image of equal justice for all shattered into a million pieces when it fell on her head like a ton of bricks. Rich and politically connected families like the Randals did not have daughters who went to prison, even if it meant ruining the life of a lowly middle-class law student.

  Nicky didn’t know how they’d managed to hush up the scandal, while at the same time causing all of the blame to fall on her. By the end, she had to drop out of law school and mortgage her house to pay for lawyers. It took Dax pulling her aside at a deposition, offering her money to cover her debts—and begging her to let it go—for Nicky to concede defeat. Hush money, she thought bitterly. He’d married Janet Randal weeks earlier, in a lavish ceremony attended by celebrities and national politicians. For Nicky, his offer had been the nadir of the whole affair.

  She’d agreed to a settlement, but with stipulations, one of which was admission to the Police Academy. The injustice of the courts made her sick. She decided instead to become a cop. Direct, frontline action, instead of talk, backstabbing, and delay.

  But Dax had one final twist, one last lie to perpetuate. Instead of the Santa Fe Department of Public Safety Law Enforcement Academy, he’d gotten her admission to the U.S. Indian Police Academy in Artesia. The Randals lived in Santa Fe. They didn’t want her near them.

  She would never admit it to him, but it was the best thing to happen out of the whole sordid situation. She loved where she was and what she did.

  Nicky swallowed her anger. “Why did you want to meet with me?”

  “I miss you, Nicky. I miss us. I made a mistake when I let you go. I wanted you to know that.” He gave a self-mocking laugh.

  Five years ago, she would have given anything to hear him say that.

  “So the information was a ploy?”

  “I do have something to tell you, but … I wanted to see if we could come to an understanding. I can’t leave Janet. And I still want to run for Congress. That means there’s no future for us.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Look, I’m trying to be honest. You’re the best I’ve ever had.” His voice became intense. “I want that again. Nicky, Janet is in New York with her mother for a few weeks. Stay with me tonight.”

  Funny, but she believed him. And she was tempted. Her sex life had been nonexistent since Dax. She’d wanted only him at first, then vowed off anyone connected to law. Since those were the only men she’d met in the past five years …

  “No.” She was proud how firm her voice sounded.

  His eyes narrowed. Chin lifted, she stared at him defiantly. Finally, he gave her a rueful smile. “Can’t fault a guy for trying.”

  Time to end this before she changed her mind.

  “It’s getting late, Dax. What’s this information you have for me?”

  He crumpled up his napkin and tossed it beside his plate, suddenly all business.

  “I’ve heard from an inside channel you have a couple of FBI agents working undercover on your Tsiba’ashi D’yini Reservation.” His pronunciation was perfect. “Not even your chief of police knows.”

  Two agents. She’d thought there was only one.

  “How about Richards?” she asked quietly.

  “No. Your jackass of a captain is in the dark, too.”

  There was no love lost between the two men. It went back even further than her and Dax’s association.

  “I know about the agents.” Well, she knew about one of the agents. It was a little white lie, but she relished his look of surprise. “You aren’t the only one with ‘inside channels.’”

  This time his chuckle was real. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he said softly before his expression became serious again. “But do you know why they’re in place?” He answered his own question. “No. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be so complacent.”

  Nicky’s instincts rattled off an alarm in her head.

  “The FBI hasn’t told anyone—not even the BIA—because they don’t want to scare him away, have him go underground. They don’t want leaks,” he continued.

  “Scare who away?”

  “Nicky, the FBI think they’ve tracked a serial killer to the Fire-Sky Reservation. And they believe he’s targeting Tsiba’ashi D’yini Indians.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nicky pressed her foot down on the accelerator until she was flying over the dips and hills in the road. Normally the roller-coaster feeling relaxed her, as did the stark beauty of the late spring landscape. But she had too much going on in her head to enjoy it.

  Dax’s information was making her crazy. A serial killer preying on Fire-Sky Natives.

  At the restaurant, she’d stared at him openmouthed, knowing—knowing—that this was the reason for the ancient one’s visitation. Somehow this was tied to Sandra Deering’s pursuit of the lost tribal members. Despite her rapid-fire interrogation, Dax knew nothing more than what he’d told her. Couldn’t even answer the simplest questions.

  Like how many people had been murdered.

&n
bsp; At a bend in the road, she slowed her unit and scanned the countryside, looking for anything out of place—for anything that might need intervention. Because that was her job. To help the people of the pueblo. Keep them safe. Sometimes it was thankless. Sometimes heartrending, and sometimes uplifting. But it was never boring. It had taken a long time to realize she’d done the right thing by becoming a cop—that she was in the right place, doing work she absolutely loved.

  So why was she wavering right now? Her fingers flexed on the steering wheel. In her possession was potentially lifesaving information: a serial killer in the midst of the people she was sworn to protect.

  And she didn’t know what to do with it.

  The road straightened, a flat line pointing true to the small community of Ruby Crest and the Feast Day coordination meeting held in the bingo hall off the adobe church. It was the first joint meeting of everyone involved. As many as two hundred people usually showed up, including parade participants, dance and float managers, food and craft vendors, security for the weekend’s festivities, and casino coordinators.

  Traffic thickened, as much as it could on the two-lane road, with cars and trucks filled with residents streaming to the gathering. She drove up behind a battered blue pickup truck, the bed filled with chattering men and women, some with small children on their laps. An older man, shadowed face under a sweat-stained Stetson, stared at her. He dropped his chin in recognition before he looked away.

  Her phone rang, and Bluetooth picked up the call. She glanced at the radio display. Julie Knuteson’s name scrolled across the screen. Nicky’s stomach tightened. Finally.

  “Hey, Nicky. I got your message. Sorry I didn’t get back to you right away. We’re down a man here and swamped. Multiple traffic fatalities, two unattended deaths, one murder-suicide, and a partridge in a pear tree. Just since yesterday. I haven’t had a second to breathe.”

  Nicky made a sympathetic noise.

  Julie worked at OMI in Albuquerque. They’d become friends when Nicky was assigned as the tribe’s liaison to the agency two years ago.

  “Why didn’t you call my personal cell phone?” Julie asked. “I’d have gotten back to you sooner.”

  “And interrupt the first vacation you’ve had in a year? Not a chance. How was the wedding?” She slowed her unit to let a car pull in front of her.

  “Fine.” But her voice was less than enthusiastic. “I don’t know what my sister sees in that woman. Her new wife is a total ass, and I’m not saying that in a homophobic way. She’d be an ass if she were a man, too. I give them a year, tops.”

  Nicky chuckled. “You can’t choose your family,” she said, thinking of her mom. “And how are you doing?”

  Julie had broken up with her live-in partner earlier that year after naked pictures of him with another woman were sent anonymously to her phone.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Nothing like showing up ‘stag’—or do I mean ‘doe’?—to a lesbian marriage ceremony. I was hit on so many times, I started to feel a whole lot better.” She drew in a deep breath. “And I’m kind of seeing someone now. A guy I work with periodically. I know it’s fast after … you know.”

  Nicky could almost hear Julie’s grimace through the phone.

  “Hey. No judgment. I’m the last person to give dating advice.”

  They both laughed, before Nicky continued. “Look, I know you’re busy, but … I have a kinda-sorta ticklish situation that needs discretion.” The car in front of her stopped at a crosswalk to let a group of young men in cowboy hats swagger across the street.

  “Did you kill someone? No problem. I’ll do the autopsy and totally say it was natural causes.”

  “Funny. I’ll keep that promise in my pocket for another time.”

  “Seriously. Anything you need.”

  “Wait till you hear, then make your decision.” She licked her lips. “David Saunders did an autopsy on a Fire-Sky Tribe member a little over a month ago—”

  “Saunders,” Julie spat. “That son of a bitch is why I was called in to work last night. He’s AWOL. Up and decided to take a leave of absence early last week. No one’s seen him since. Sent an email to the ME saying he’d been asked to speak at some forensics conference in Italy. Didn’t get anyone to cover his shifts or call, and left a bunch of open cases.”

  Nicky’s every nerve went on high alert. This was a completely off-the-wall coincidence, and she didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Traffic slowed to a crawl as she entered the town. The church was ahead on the right. Dozens of trucks and cars were parked in dirt lots on either side of the road. Nicky turned her unit into the lot on the far side of the building, found an open spot, and parked.

  “The Native woman he autopsied—Sandra Deering—I need you to review her files. His notes, the CT, photos. All of it. Search for anything he might have overlooked, or…”

  “Or what? Falsified?” Julie’s voice was serious. “Nicky, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t have anything concrete yet. Just a hunch. And Julie, I need you to keep anything you find quiet. For now.”

  The silence on the other end of the line stretched. Nicky stared out of her unit over the edge of the high bluff and into a sweeping grass-and-scrub-filled valley. Cattle dotted the landscape, and Scalding Peak loomed against the sky. The sun sat low on the horizon. Feast Day meeting would start in five minutes.

  “What’s the name again? Sandra…?” Julie asked.

  “Deering.” Nicky’s shoulders relaxed. “Train-pedestrian. Ruled a suicide.” She gave the date.

  “Let me pull it up. I’m putting you on speaker.”

  Nicky heard the tapping of a keyboard.

  “Here it is. Yeah. David signed off on the report, along with Jim Harrison, his supervisor.” There was a pause. “That’s weird.”

  “What? What’s weird?”

  “The report. David didn’t have to resubmit because of modifications or changes. He always makes changes. We all do. That’s why we have a tracking system that layers revision, for legal purposes. This report is perfect.” Her voice held a note of misgiving. “Too perfect. Hold on.” More tapping. “Damn it. Why didn’t anyone notice this?” Julie said.

  “What?” Nicky licked her lips.

  “All of the OMI pathologists are assigned a sequentially numbered series on their autopsies for tracking purposes. Mine begin with my initials followed by a number. You know, JK1, JK2, and so on, but more complex. No skips in sequence because of legality issues. Each body received is logged in by a technician and CT-scanned before it’s turned over for autopsy. David usually takes the train-pedestrians, so the tech would have used his next sequential file number for Sandra Deering. But I just pulled up all of David’s cases for the last couple of months, and…”

  “What?”

  Julie gave an odd little laugh. “So, Nicky, do you ever get hunches about the lottery? Because if you do, please tell me. I am ready to be rich. David’s cases. They’re not sequential. There’s a file number missing.”

  “Which file?”

  “The one right before Sandra Deering’s officially submitted autopsy report. He’s somehow deleted a file that should never have been deleted,” Julie muttered. “What the hell?”

  * * *

  The cool evening air wafted through the wide double doors of the church hall and into the stuffy, crowded interior. Tables normally used to serve punch and cookies after services sat on a dais at one end of the long room. Excited conversation and laughter filled the air: English, Spanish, and Keres, but the sounds weren’t distinct. Too many people speaking at once. Careful rows of chairs had already been moved into more intimate circles. As they crept toward the stage, the Fathers shook hands and chatted with parishioners.

  The lingering smell of tobacco from those smoking outside mixed pleasantly with the scent of strong coffee. Nicky filled a Styrofoam cup from a large silver urn and added a packet of artificial sweetener. She grabbed a couple of store-bought cookies—the homemade ones were
gone already—and stood back, searching the crowd for black shirts with SECURITY emblazoned in large white letters across the back. Underneath, in smaller print, was POLICE, MEDICAL, FIRE, or CONSERVATION. It was the uniform of the emergency personnel for the fiesta, worn with their duty belts and cargo pants. Her gaze snagged on a mixed group of black shirts in the middle of the room. Nicky munched an iced oatmeal cookie as she detoured past them toward Savannah. Her friend waited at the edge of the stage, a yellow legal pad clutched against her chest.

  “How’d it go with Dax Friday night? I was extremely good and didn’t text or call the whole weekend, so you’d better give me a straight answer, or else,” Savannah threatened.

  “It was fine.” Nicky’s gaze ran over the people already sitting onstage.

  “Fine? That’s all I get?” Savannah asked, her eyebrows raised so high they disappeared under her bangs. Nicky sipped her coffee to hide a smile.

  Savannah tugged her into an unoccupied corner of the room.

  “Ryan and I have been sick with worry—” Nicky rolled her eyes and Savannah corrected. “Okay, I have been sick with worry you did something idiotic, like sleep with him. Ryan said you were a big girl and could make your own stupid mistakes.”

  Nicky gave a crack of laughter. That sounded more like Ryan.

  She leaned in close to Savannah. “He offered. Wanted to restart our relationship, if you can believe it. Said I was the best he’d ever had, like I was some kind of gourmet treat,” she finished dryly.

  Savannah snorted, but her expression relaxed. “Where did you meet?”

  “Some restaurant in Santa Fe. Very clandestine. I had the feeling he’d used it before.” She felt a stupid pang in her chest, but she ignored it, and searched the room for Ryan. He stood with a group of security people, talking to a couple of conservation officers, one she didn’t recognize.

  “So, what was the information Dax had? Or can you tell me?” Savannah asked.

  “It was about the FBI undercover operation on the pueblo. Seems there are two agents, not one.”

  “Two, huh? Wow. There must be something pretty big going on. He didn’t say anything about who they are or why they were here?”