Delaney adjusted the portion and leaned in, trying to see around Joe as he examined their finding. It was the upper right quadrant of a man’s face. Part of a forehead, one eye, cheek and the shadow of a nose. “Could be Indian. Maybe Mexican,” Joe muttered. “Can you get any closer?”

“Not without distorting it.” She showed him what happened when she tried to enlarge it further, then returned to the former shot.

He shook his head, frustration sounding in his voice. “It’s still not enough to identify him.”

“Not yet.” She used her toolbar to trace the man’s visible features, and then selected another program to provide them with a blank drawing grid. Pasting the features on the page, she returned to the photos with renewed eagerness and began searching and zooming again. “We may not be lucky enough to get a full-face shot. But maybe we’ll get enough to piece together a reasonable resemblance. Enough anyway to ID him.”

Hours went by, but filled with a renewed sense of purpose Delaney didn’t really notice. After going through the entire assortment of photos, they had four more that provided them with pieces to add to the grid. As well as two chilling partial shots of a rifle muzzle aimed in what must have been her direction.

Joe watched in silence while she manipulated the bits of the shooter’s face on the grid, like clicking puzzle pieces together, until she had a fair representation of a person, minus the lower left quadrant of his features.

“That’s not bad,” he said, studying it. “You even managed to get the parts close in size, proportionately. I think our composite artist will be able to sketch in the rest.”

“And then what?” She yawned, and worked her shoulders to dislodge the stiffness there.

“I’ll compare it to shots in the mug file, see if I can find a match. Show it to whoever owns that property.”

He stood, forcing her to push her chair back and rise, as well. “And then what?”

“Then I’ll have to take a trip back there and start talking to families in the area.”

She yawned again and began to follow him out of the room. It wasn’t until she reached the doorway and nearly bumped into him that she realized he’d stopped to lean against the doorjamb, eyes on her.

Delaney had a crazy flashback to the first time she’d seen him, in almost the same spot, almost the exact position. She’d been afraid to squeeze by him that time, too, but for a very different reason. This time she knew precisely how his hard frame would feel pressed against hers and it was that knowledge that kept her rooted in place.

He was silent for long moments, his gaze brooding. Her patience whittled away by lack of sleep, she finally snapped, “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said this afternoon. About not repeating what happened between us last night.”

There was a buzzing in her ears, a warmth creeping down her spine. “I think that would be best.”

“Probably. Smartest, too. Are we going to be smart, Delaney?” His black gaze bore into hers and the space between them seemed to shrink.

No, shrieked a voice deep inside her, one that had gotten her in trouble in the past. No, no, no!

“Yes,” she said firmly, and clutched her arms to keep her hands from trembling. “We are.”

There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, so fleeting that she blinked, wondering if it had been there at all.

He didn’t agree or disagree, for which she was grateful, just gave her one last long look and said, “Lock the door after me.” Then he walked away.

She followed him to the door, this time at a safe distance, noting that it was past three. He couldn’t have left much before five yesterday morning. He had to be exhausted. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to be careful, but she swallowed the words.

She’d be wise to heed her own warning. Because if the last couple days had proved anything at all, she was the one who needed to be careful where Joe Youngblood was concerned.

“I already told you. That wasn’t my phone. I found it at a party and picked it up, thinking it belonged to a buddy of mine. So what?” Brant Graywolf stared at Joe across the table of the interview room the next morning and gave a bored hitch of his shoulder. “When you messaged me I figured I’d pull a prank on one of his friends and show up instead of him.”

“And did it belong to one of your friends?”

“Guess not. I threw it away after I found that out. I don’t even know this Quintero guy you’re talking about.”

“That’s what you keep saying.” Joe didn’t bother to mask his derision. “But you know what I think? I think you were one of his clients. How about it, Brant? You score from Quintero? Was he your supplier?”

The boy never lost his poise. “I already told you. I don’t do drugs anymore. I’m done with all that.”

That earnest schoolboy look might have fooled his teachers and coaches when he was a star athlete at Tuba City High. Might have scammed his father into believing that the boy on whom he’d showered every conceivable material possession was finally done sowing his wild oats.

But it didn’t convince Joe. His BS detector was better developed than most. If an adult had done half of what Graywolf had done as a juvenile, he’d have been in prison.

Joe crossed his arms and gave the boy a mocking smile. “So getting kicked out of three colleges for possession scared you straight, huh? Wish I could believe that.”

“Believe it. Sir.” The earnest facade cracked a little, allowing some of his cockiness through. “I’m going back to school in the fall and turning over a new leaf. Just ask my dad.”

The mention of the boy’s father was probably meant to intimidate. The Graywolf family owned and operated the largest construction firm in the area, with a half-dozen branch offices scattered throughout the Southwest. But neither the family’s wealth nor stature in the community meant jack to Joe. Somehow this kid was connected to Quintero. Joe was willing to bet that Oree’s phone would prove it, too.

“Always nice to see a wiseass kid turn into a pillar of the community,” he responded, his voice as insincere as Graywolf’s. “So I guess when the tech completes the dump on Quintero’s cell, we aren’t going to find any calls from his phone to yours. Since you don’t know him.”

The kid’s gaze flicked to the one-way glass at the far end of the interview room. “That phone wasn’t mine, remember?”

“Yeah, so you said.” Joe stared at him, letting the silence stretch and grow tense. Most people, especially people under stress, didn’t like silence. There was a human compulsion to fill it, to maybe blurt out things they didn’t mean to say, and later regretted.

But Graywolf slanted another glance at the one-way glass and clamped his lips, folding his hands on the table like a choirboy in prayer. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I don’t know. Is there?”

“Nope. Sorry.” The chair scraped the floor as the kid pushed away from the table, stood. He picked up his jacket, which he’d hung carefully on the back of the chair. Like the rest of him, it looked expensive and useless. Shrugging into it, he gave Joe a nasty grin. “Heard you killed that guy. Quintero. How’d that feel?”

Joe stared at him, not responding. Their gazes did battle for a moment before the kid lifted a hand and sauntered to the door. Joe let him get halfway through it before saying, “Oh, Brant? I’ll be in touch.”

There was a hesitation in the kid’s stride, just for a moment. Then without a backward glance he walked away.

Leaning forward, Joe reached for the tape recorder on the table and pressed the stop button. He was allowing it to rewind when Captain Tapahe came into the room. “What’d you think?” The captain had watched the entire interview from behind the one-way glass.

“I think if the kid’s daddy had gotten wind that we were talking to him, he’d have been lawyered up before coming in here.”