“All this happened a long time ago. How exactly did Justice for All find out about it?” Brandon asked.

“They do data mining, at least that’s how Rosalie Whittier explained it to me.”

“Who’s Rosalie Whittier?”

“JFA’s lead attorney on the John Lassiter case. Somehow JFA tracked down a long out-­of-­print book called Lawmen Gone Bad. Hardly anybody’s read it—­had a print run of five hundred copies or so—­but it’s a tell-­all book about a previous sheriff, a guy named DuShane. Ever hear of him?”

Brandon Walker remembered Jack DuShane, all right. Sheriff DuShane had been as corrupt as they come. He still remembered the bumper stickers that had blossomed around town at the time. SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL SHERIFF, they said. GET A MASSAGE. That may have been a joke, but unfortunately, it was also all too true. DuShane’s involvement with the massage parlor/escort ser­vice industry was one of the things that had finally propelled Brandon into running for office against the man and eventually defeating him.

“I know the name well,” Brandon said aloud. “DuShane was my boss at one time, but I never heard about the book. You say it’s a tell-­all?”

“I haven’t seen it, but that’s what I’m told.”

“Why haven’t I heard about it, then? A book exposing Jack DuShane’s carryings-­on should have been big news around here.”

“That’s what makes all this so interesting,” Junior said. “As far as I can tell, the book never saw the light of day. The entire first printing was sold to what was most likely a single buyer who destroyed all the copies.”

“What single buyer?”

“No ID on the buyer, but I have a pretty good idea of who it might have been.”

So did Brandon Walker. Most likely Sheriff DuShane himself, now retired and living the good life in Palm Springs.

“At any rate, there was never a second printing,” Junior continued. “Word is, the author made a good piece of change by just going away and keeping his mouth shut.”

“Not blackmail, then,” Brandon suggested. “More like hush money.”

“Correct.”

“How did JFA find a copy?”

“Somebody gave them access to an uncorrected proof. Don’t ask me how, but they did, and that’s where they came up with the connection between Ava Martin and Eric Tuttle. He wasn’t the county attorney at the time, but he and DuShane were evidently good buds.”

Who played poker together for years, Brandon thought. If there had ever been a doubt in Brandon’s mind about looking into John Lassiter’s case, that was the moment it went away.

“Okay,” Brandon said aloud, “based on all that, JFA comes in and negotiates a deal that, as I understand it, Lassiter no longer wants.”

“He never wanted it to begin with,” Junior said. “And he isn’t the one who brought JFA into the deal. The person responsible for that would be his daughter, Amanda Wasser.”

“Back then I had no idea he had a daughter.”

“His girlfriend was expecting at the time he was arrested. The baby was born right after he went to prison for life without. He signed away his parental rights, and the mother gave the baby up for adoption at birth. Amanda had a health issue in her late twenties and came looking for her biological parents. By the time she did that, her birth mother was dead and you already know about John.”

“This daughter, Amanda Wasser, where is she?”

“Right here in Tucson. Turns out she’s lived here all her life. She works for the university—­at the library, I believe. She’s probably off this week since it’s spring break, but I doubt she’s out of town. I don’t believe she travels very much. As I said, she has health issues.”

“What kind of health issues?”

“The same thing her father has—­MS. I understand it’s hereditary.”

“Do you have a phone number for her?”

“Sure thing. Let me find it.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“In a condo development off Speedway on the far side of Wilmot, the one with the dying golf course.”

It took a few moments before Junior dug up Amanda’s address and phone number. “Thanks,” Brandon said. “Now, could you do one more thing?”

“What’s that?”

“Let John Lassiter know that I’ll try to come see him, if not tomorrow then maybe the next day.”

“Good-­o,” Junior Glassman replied. “I’ll get a message through to him right away. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear you’re on board.”

SITTING IN LEO’S TRUCK, LANI dialed 911. After that, it was simply a matter of seeing who would arrive first, Law and Order—­the tribal police—­or someone from the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. While they waited, Lani held her phone for a time, dreading and delaying the call she needed to make. Finally she pressed the button.

“Good morning,” Dan Pardee said cheerfully. “We’re having breakfast and wondering when we’d hear from you. Since the cat’s away, I made blueberry pancakes. Tell Mom how you like them.”

“Yummy,” she heard Micah crow in the background.

Lani sighed. This was not a conversation she could have on speaker with Angie and Micah hanging on her every word.

“I need to talk to you in private.”

“Sure,” Dan said. “Just a sec.” Lani heard the legs of his chair scrape on the floor. Then a moment later, a door slammed.

“I’m outside now,” he said, turning off the speaker. “I can tell from your voice that something’s wrong. What is it?”

“Gabe is fine, and so am I,” she said hurriedly, “but there was a shooting down by Rattlesnake Skull charco early this morning. It woke me up. When Leo came to get me, I had him stop and check. We found two dead men lying by the charco. Right now we’re waiting for the cops to arrive.”

“Wait,” Dan said. “You said Leo came to pick you up. Where’s Gabe?”

“We had an argument,” Lani admitted. “He stormed off the mountain, but don’t worry. He’s okay.”

“Don’t worry? Are you kidding? This whole campout idea was all about helping him, and you’re telling me the little shit went off and left you out there on your own?”

Hearing the anger in Dan’s voice, Lani glanced toward Leo, who was sitting stolidly in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“It was fine,” Lani said, grateful her phone wasn’t on speaker, either. “I’m fine.”

An uncomfortable silence passed between Lani and Dan. The next admission would be the worst one, because of Dan’s words of warning the day before.

“The bad guys were firing automatic weapons,” she said finally. “I had my Glock, but up against whatever they were firing, it wouldn’t have been any more effective than a slingshot. You have every right to say I told you so, and plenty of reason to rub my nose in it all you want.”

There was another period of silence before Dan asked, “Any idea who the victims are?”

“We found a vehicle that might belong to one of the José boys, but Leo and I backed off without getting close enough to examine the bodies. Both victims had grocery bags over their heads.”

“Figures,” Dan muttered. “I heard Max was involved in some kind of smuggling operation.”

A cloud of dust bloomed farther down the road as a vehicle turned off the highway and sped toward them, red lights flashing.

“Gotta go,” Lani said hurriedly. “The cops just showed up. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I’m sure it’ll be a while,” Dan said. “Don’t worry. I’ll hold down the fort here. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

CHAPTER 15

YOU WILL REMEMBER, NAWOJ, MY friend, that after I’itoi divided the water and saved the Tohono O’odham, some of the Bad ­People—­PaDaj O’odham—­escaped and went to live in the South. Now these bad ­people were very lazy—­too lazy to plant their own fields. They would come to the lands of the Desert ­People and steal their crops—­their wheat and corn, their pumpkins and melons. Each time they came, the Tohono O’odham fought the Bad ­People and drove them away, but after a while when the food was gone and the Bad ­People were hungry, they would come again.