Wild Wild Death (11 page)

Wel , far be it from me to be accused of being shal ow, but I wil say this—this guy was as yummy as a showcase chock-ful of Godiva chocolates.

Eyes as dark as Goodshot’s. Hair, too. Long and silky, pul ed back into a tight ponytail.

High cheekbones. Dusky skin.

Native American.

Gorgeous Native American. Broad-shouldered, with a mouth that was rich and ful and—

“What the hel are you doing in my room?”

It was a better than
What’s your sign?
or
What
are you doing later ’cause, see, I’m new in town and
looking for some company.
I was glad the question whooshed out of me along with a breath of surprise and an indignant, “Who let you in here, anyway?”

Instead of answering, he stood. Tal er than me.

He was wearing dark pants and a tan shirt. Uniform.

Badge. Gun.

Cop.

Which could have been good news if there was any way he could use his law enforcement connections to help me find Dan.

Or real y bad news if someone back in Cleveland had gotten wind of the burgled mausoleum and my photo was now hanging in post offices across the country.

I swal owed a little too hard and backed up until my butt slammed into the door. “Wh-What do you want?” I asked.

“I hear you’re looking for something.”

So much for smal talk. Perfectly at ease with himself, he stood loose-limbed, his feet slightly apart, his expression unreadable. Cal me crazy, but I couldn’t help thinking that if he was there to arrest me for the bone heist back in Cleveland, he might have had a hand on his gun.

But then, I was used to Quinn’s way of doing things.

And Quinn had way too much testosterone. Even for a cop.

I didn’t want to give this cop any ideas so I made sure I kept my eyes on his face, and away from that gun. “You must have heard wrong,” I said.

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. I’m—”

“Not from around here. Yeah, I know.”

I think this was supposed to be a compliment. I mean, what else could he have meant? After al , when he ran a quick but thorough look up and down my body, he no doubt noticed that I was wearing a brand of jeans they didn’t sel south of the toniest shops in Denver, a tank top that didn’t come from the local off-price emporium, and the cutest pair of peep-toe platform sandals this side of the state line.

Either state line.

“You want me to be impressed by your law enforcement mojo, but my guess is there was no magic involved. You saw my car in the lot. Hard not to considering it’s out there with a rusty pickup truck and a ’sixty-eight Volkswagen Beetle. The Ohio plates were a dead giveaway. I bet you already ran them.”

“Bet you’re right.”

“And you found…” I couldn’t afford to let him hear the tremor in my voice and catch on to the fact that there actual y might be something to find so I laughed. “Nothing, right?”

“No open warrants. Should I check again?”

“Do I look like a criminal?”

“No, ma’am, you do not.” He reinforced his opinion with a brusque nod, and the single light burning next to the bed reflected off his hair like liquid onyx.

Oh yeah, I was getting way too poetic. And it wasn’t smart. I told myself to come to my senses and did my best to keep things light enough to prove I had nothing to hide, and serious enough for him to know I meant business. “Then it looks like you’re wasting your time and we’re right back where we started from.”

“Yes and no. You’re right, I am getting ready to say, ‘I hear you’re looking for something’ again. And if I’m any judge of people at al —and I am, by the way

—I’m pretty sure you’re going to evade me on that subject again. Just like you did the first time. Even then, we won’t be right back where we started from.

Theoretical y, we’l be in the same place, sure. But at a different time.”

Just what I needed. An Indian philosopher cop.

It was best to set the record straight right from the start so I said, “I don’t know what the hel you’re talking about.”

“He said that’s what you’d say.”

“He said that’s what you’d say.”

“He?” I guess it was too direct a question because when I stared at him for a couple seconds and he stil didn’t answer, I gave up with a sigh. I dropped down on the edge of the bed. “You’re not making any sense.”

“As much sense as you’re making, here in Antonito, looking for something.”

My smile was so stiff, it actual y hurt. “Only I never said I was looking for anything.”

“No, you didn’t.” He’d left a Stetson on the bed, and he picked it up and dangled it with long fingers.

“You don’t have to. He told me that, too.”

“The mysterious
he
again.” I threw my hands in the air and got to my feet. There was something about this guy that made me feel as if electricity had been wired to my bones, and it wasn’t just his crazy good looks. Heck, I’d met plenty of good-looking men in my time. I’d been sleeping with one before he went and got al stiff-necked and pissy when I told him I talked to the dead. I wasn’t that easily charmed, and I was never that easily fooled. Wel , except by Joel, my ex-fiancé, who turned out to be a total loser.

But that’s another story.

Stil , my body hummed with something that was half expectation, half need, al warning.

For once, I listened.

I stepped back, my weight against one foot, and crossed my arms over my chest. “You want to talk, maybe we can talk. But you’re going first. Who’s been talking about me? About what I’d say? And do?”

“The shaman.”

It was a word I’d heard before. But not one I’d ever paid much attention to. I leaned forward. “Sorry.

I’m just a girl from back East. A shaman is—”

“A priest, of sorts. And a healer. In my tribe, he’s also a go-between. You know, between this world and the world where spirits reside.”

The little laugh I gave him along with a lift of my shoulders had always worked its magic on the weaker sex. And unlike Goodshot, I was not talking about women here. “You’re a cop, and I know cops.

Cops aren’t big into mumbo jumbo.”

“I’m a cop, and I’m Taopi Indian. I guess you don’t watch enough old Western movies. Indians…” His solemn expression never cracked, but his eyes narrowed just enough to make it look like he actual y might know how to smile. “We believe al kinds of nonsense.”

His voice was deep and thick, as intoxicating as brandy.

The better to make you spill all your secrets, my
dear.

I told the voice inside my head to stuff a sock in it.

I wasn’t about to come clean about the bones and Dan. Not with a total stranger. For one thing, I didn’t know if I could trust him. For another, if I admitted I was there to ransom a kidnapped friend, I’d also have to admit that I was doing it with bones.

The bones of a Native American.

Something told me he wouldn’t think it was cool to find out where I’d gotten the bones, or what I intended to do with them. He hadn’t said anything about the shaman seeing prison in my future, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I tossed my head. “Sorry. I stil don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t say a word, just stood there al calm and gorgeous. Like he had al the time in the world, and he knew I’d cave eventual y.

Obviously, Mr. Philosophy had a lot to learn.

I kept my place, too, and stared right back at him.

One minute. Two. The quiet pressed against my ears. My heart slammed my ribs.

When he final y moved toward the door, I flinched as if a gunshot had gone off.

“The shaman knows because he threw the bones. He saw a vision of you there. And he told me al about you.”

“Ri-ght.” I drew the word out into two syl ables, and somehow, I managed to make it sound as cocky as I intended.

His hand on the doorknob, he paused. “You real y shouldn’t try to act so surprised,” he said. “About the shaman. And the omens. And the spirit world. For one thing, you’re not much of an actress.” He opened the door and set his hat on his head. “For another…

wel , you of al people… you should know there are things some people see and others can’t.”

His words were stil ringing in the air when he stepped outside and I kicked the door closed behind him.

I hoped he was out there listening when I turned the lock on the door. And the dead bolt, too.

S

omeone was watching me.

A chil snaked over my shoulders and settled at the back of my neck, and even though it was about one hundred degrees in the afternoon sun that baked Main Street, I shivered. While I was at it, I glanced around.

There wasn’t much happening in downtown Antonito, and no sign at al of anybody who might want to take the least interest in me (wel , except for the obvious reasons, of course). The two old guys I’d seen at Taberna a couple nights before were sitting on a bench outside the Hometown Food Market, chatting away. A late-model SUV rol ed by and kicked up a cloud of dust, but the driver never gave me so much as a glance. Across the street, a couple women shuffled into Tom’s Laundromat, baskets of clothes on their hips and whining toddlers in their arms.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing fishy. Nothing weird.

Stil , I couldn’t get rid of the feeling I’d had since I left the motel that morning and started what was turning out to be the private investigator to the dead’s version of Ground- hog Day.

Same old, same old. Same old nothing, at least in terms of finding out what happened to Goodshot’s bones or locating Dan.

Nobody in Antonito, it seemed, was wil ing to talk. But as sure as I’m Gifted (and I’m not talking just about the whole dead thing here, but about how I’m above average when it comes to mixing and matching separates into fabulous outfits), somebody had their eyes on me.

Hoping to catch whoever it was in the act and convince myself that my imagination wasn’t running wild, I looked around again.

And saw the same no one and nothing I’d seen before.

Maybe I wouldn’t have been so edgy if only I knew who I was dealing with. Kidnappers waiting for me to make a wrong move, and so, send Dan to his doom? Some ordinary person who hadn’t seen this much style (not to mention peep-toe sandals this cool) in the hinterlands? Or was it that cop? The one who’d been in my motel room the night before?

If nothing else, at least that last thought got rid of the ice in my veins. Al it took was the memory of that chiseled face and those eyes as deep as secrets, and my blood was boiling.

At least until I remembered al he’d said about shamans and seeing things that weren’t there, and how had he known in the first place that I was looking for something? Delicious or not, this was one guy I had to be careful around.

“You lookin’ for somethin’?”

Since Goodshot was behind me, it’s not like I would have seen him when he poofed onto the scene, anyway, so of course I couldn’t help but jump.

I refused to turn around, though. If anybody noticed, it would be bad enough that I was talking to myself. It wouldn’t matter which direction I was facing.

“Somebody’s keeping an eye on me,” I said, moving my lips as little as possible. “There was this cop in my room last night and—”

“He’s going to help us find my bones?”

Since I’d been standing in one spot long enough

—and since standing in one spot might look suspicious—I walked a little farther down the street. I stopped at an empty storefront and peered inside.

“I didn’t tel him about the bones,” I said to Goodshot. “I didn’t know if I could trust him. He was

—”

Trying to explain about things like the sensations that sizzled through me when that cop was near was not a good idea. Even under the best of circumstances. Trying to explain to a ghost how I spent the night dreaming about that kil er body…

“He was an Indian,” I said.

“Good, then maybe we’l final y have somebody with some sense workin’ with us. Unless you mean that’s why you couldn’t trust him? Because he’s Indian?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know me better than that. I’m an equal opportunity investigator.” I moved on to the next storefront. It was empty, too, but once upon a time, it must have housed a beauty parlor. I upon a time, it must have housed a beauty parlor. I pressed my nose to the window and looked inside at a couple chairs set in front of mirrors caked with dust. “I don’t trust him because I don’t trust him. I don’t know him. For al I know, he could have been the one who stole the bones.”