“So this isn’t necessarily his place?” Abra Garcia looked at the small dingy white house, with the screens and outside door missing.

“We’re about to find out.”

They got out of his unmarked police issue Jeep and headed up to the front door. Joe knocked and they waited. He tried again, more loudly this time, and finally the front door opened a crack, and a middle-aged woman peered out at them.

“¿Quiénes son usted?”

“Sergeant Joe Youngblood, ma’am. Criminal Investigations.” Joe showed his shield and continued, “This is Navajo Tribal Police Officer Garcia. Is that your truck in the drive?”

“Si.” She switched to English. “It is my husband’s truck.”

“May we speak to him?”

Her eyes were rounded, plainly worried. “He works. He is not here now. What is the worry?”

“There’s no trouble, ma’am.” Garcia put in smoothly. “We had a report that the person driving this truck a couple hours ago may have witnessed an accident downtown and we’re just following up on that. Were you driving?”

She shook her head slowly. “I do not drive in this country. My son, Niyol.”

Joe took over. “Your son was driving? Is he here? It would be very helpful if we could speak to him.”

Her expression eased slightly. “Un momento.” The door shut again and they waited for several minutes before the woman came back to open the door, biting her lip. “Niyol was here, but now he is gone. I did not see him leave.”

Exchanging a glance with Garcia, Joe said, “How long ago did you see him, Mrs…?”

“Lee. Maria Lee. Niyol was here five minutes before. Five minutes.” She nodded her head emphatically.

Meaning he headed out the back door the second he saw them pulling up to the house, Joe thought cynically. “Do you mind if we look out back? See if he’s still around?”

After a moment’s hesitation the woman shook her head and Joe lost no time rounding the house, only to find the backyard deserted. There was no sign of life in the yards of the nearby houses, either. Rejoining Garcia on the front porch, he asked, “Do you know when he’ll be back? Does he live here with you and your husband?”

“He stays with us sometimes. He lives in Mexico and sometimes he lives here. He was born in Mexico City but his father is Navajo. He has…” She searched for the correct phrase.

“Dual citizenship?”

“Si.”

“Do you mind if we come inside? Look around?”

The woman looked from one to the other of them and then stepped back, allowing them entry into the house.

It was as suffocating as an oven. Almost immediately Joe could feel perspiration dampen his face. He looked through the house. It was sparsely furnished, but there was a telephone, a newer model television and running water.

“What a pretty wall hanging,” he heard Garcia say in back of him. “Did you make it?”

He took advantage of their distraction to peer into a cramped bedroom on his left. There was a large crucifix hanging over the bed, a woman’s clothing interspersed with a man’s in the cramped open closet. The parents’ bedroom.

The door across the hallway was shut. Joe turned the knob, and stepped to the side as the door swung open. But it was as empty as the other rooms appeared to be. An open window indicated the man’s probable exit.

Swiftly he checked the closet, looked under the bed and mattress, went through the dresser drawers, not sure exactly what he was looking for. He found it, though, taped to the back of the dresser. A small notebook and a bankbook.

The women’s voices were coming closer. He tore the items free of the tape and flipped through them. A savings account at a Flagstaff bank showed that Niyol Lee had deposited sums of five thousand dollars almost monthly for the last three years. Dropping the bankbook on the bed, he opened the notebook, which seemed to be a combination of jotted initials and dates. It was the first of the initials that caught Joe’s eye, though. B.G.

He resecured both books behind the dresser a second before the two women appeared in the doorway, but his mind continued to race. B.G.

Brant Graywolf?

“I don’t understand the connection.”

It had been late when Joe appeared on Delaney’s step, but she hadn’t been asleep. She suspected he knew that; that he understood sleep didn’t come easily to her. And she appreciated the fact that he didn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know the connection yet,” Joe admitted. He picked up his plate and took it to the sink, rinsing it off, and the hominess of the gesture almost succeeded in distracting her. She’d made him eggs, one of the few meals she could manage without burning and he’d eaten with a single-minded intensity that told her better than words how long it had been since he’d last eaten.

He turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. “But Graywolf is linked to Quintero. Quintero might be linked to those three kids who were murdered three weeks ago.” She shuddered, remembering the short succinct description he’d given her of the scene. “And Lee is linked to you, because we’re pretty sure he’s the one who fired those shots a few days ago. Now it’s looking like he might also be linked to Graywolf.”

“You can’t be sure those initials are his.”

“No,” Joe admitted. “But all initials and dates in that book seemed to correlate to the dates of the deposits made in Lee’s bank account.” He unbuckled his holster, wrapped the straps around the sheathed weapon. “Lee’s mother said he only stayed there some of the time when he was in the area, so maybe he’s got another place to hide. But something tells me the three of them-the guy shooting at you, Graywolf and Quintero-are all connected.”

“Why would someone keep records that could incriminate them?” She trailed after him as he left the kitchen and walked into her bedroom, where he set the gun on the dresser. He sat on the edge of the bed, and starting pulling off his boots.

Delaney’s stomach jittered oddly at the sight. He shrank the space when he was in it. Heck, he stamped the whole house with his presence. And it all seemed too much, too soon. The familiarity of his showing up here. Her feeding him. Even talking about the case. It all seemed so…domestic.

The term had her mouth drying out. She didn’t do domestic and she certainly didn’t do long-term. Just the thought had anxiety skating along her nerves. She was used to being the outsider, always looking in, always observing. There was a certain distance necessary to see all angles of the story.

It had never bothered her before, it was just something that was, like her hair or eye color. It wasn’t until she’d finished her last project and allowed herself to go home, her nerves in shreds, nightmares and alcohol sharing a viselike grip on her psyche, that she realized the truth-she didn’t belong anywhere anymore. She could go home but she couldn’t be at home there. And the sincere love and support her family had tried to offer had, at times, felt as smothering as the flashbacks that dragged her back into the past.

She wasn’t sure why that fact struck her now, except that she’d never seen a man with a stronger sense of belonging than Joe Youngblood. His ties to his culture, to his family were so much a part of him that one couldn’t be separated from the other. And knowing that filled her with a sort of wistfulness, as if he had something she didn’t want. Didn’t need. But recognized all the same as something she’d never have.

He was staring at her and she realized with a start that he’d been speaking. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said Lee might be keeping it to incriminate someone else. It might be insurance in case he gets caught at whatever the hell he’s doing, so he has something to trade.” His T-shirt came off next and the sight of that wide expanse of hard bronzed flesh had all doubts and distractions receding. She looked away, the blood in her pulse turning slow and heavy.