Chee didn't comment on that. He had to be careful, too.
'Don't you think so? Or did you find other tracks?'
'You mean other than Jano's?'
'Of course. Did you have a chance to look for any before it started raining?'
Chee considered the question, why she had asked it and whether she already knew the answer.
'You want some more coffee?'
'Okay,' Janet said.
Chee signaled the waiter, thinking about what he was about to do. It was fair, if her effort to get him to state that he hadn't looked for other tracks was fair.
'Janet, Jano told you how he got those deep slashes on his forearm. Did he mention exactly when he got scratched?'
The boy brought the coffee, refilled their cups, asked if they were ready to order breakfast.
'Give us another minute,' Chee said.
'When?' Janet said. 'Isn't that obvious? It would have been either while he was catching the eagle or when he was putting it in the cage. Or somewhere in between. I didn't quiz him about it.'
'But did he say? Specifically when?'
'You mean in relation to what?' she asked, grinning at him. 'Come on, Jim. Say it. The police lab people have told you that Jano's blood is mixed with Kinsman's on Kinsman's shirt. The lab is probably doing some of their new molecular magic to tell them if Jano's blood had been exposed to the air longer than Kinsman's, and how much longer, and all that.'
'Can they do that now?' he asked, wishing he hadn't been pressing her on this, making her angry for no reason. 'They probably would if they could, because the official, formal theory of the crime will be that Jano struggled with Kinsman and got his arm slashed on Kinsman's belt buckle.'
'Can they do it? I don't know. Probably. But how can you get cut on a belt buckle?'
'Kinsman liked to bend the rules when he could. Put a feather in his uniform hat, that sort of thing. He put a fancy buckle on his belt to see how long it would be before I told him to take it off.
'Well, go ahead then. Ask me. Just exactly to the minute, when did Jano get his arm slashed?'
'Okay,' Chee said. 'Exactly, precisely when?'
'Ha!' Janet said. 'You're treading on client confidentiality.'
'Whaddaya mean?'
'You know what I mean. I see J. D. Mickey with a new hundred-dollar haircut and an Italian silk suit addressing the jury. 'Ladies and gentlemen. The defendant's blood was found mixed with the blood of the victim on Officer Kinsman's uniform.' And then he gets into all the blood chemistry stuff.' Janet raised her hand, dropped her voice —providing a poor imitation of Mickey's courtroom dramatics. ''But! But! He told an officer of this court that he suffered the cut later. After he had moved Officer Kinsman.''
'So I guess you're not going to tell me,' Chee said.
'Right,' Janet said. She put down her menu, studied him. Her expression was somber. 'A little while ago, I might have.'
Chee let his expression ask the question.
'How can I trust you when you don't trust me?'
Chee waited.
She shook her head. 'I'm not just a shyster trying for a reputation with some sort of cheap acquittal,' she said. 'I really want to know if Robert Jano is innocent. I want to know what happened.' She put down her menu and stared at him, inviting a response.
'I understand that,' Chee said.
'I respect—' she began. Her voice tightened. She paused, looked away from him. 'When I asked you about the tracks, I wasn't trying to trick you,' she said. 'I asked because I think if somebody else had been there and left any traces you would have found them. That is, if anybody in the world could have found them. And if there weren't any, then maybe I'm wrong and maybe Robert Jano did kill your officer, and maybe I should be trying to talk him into a plea bargain. So I ask you, but you don't trust me, so you change the subject.'
Chee had put down his menu to listen to this. Now he picked it up, opened it. 'And now, once again, I think we should change the subject. How were things in Washington?'
'I'm really not going to have time for breakfast.' She put down her menu, said, 'Thanks for the coffee,' and walked out.
Chapter Eight
'THERE'S JUST ONE THING I can tell you and feel absolutely certain about it,' said Richard Krause without looking up from the box full of assorted stuff he was picking through. 'Cathy Pollard didn't just run off with our Jeep. Something happened to her. But don't ask me what.'
Leaphorn nodded. 'That's what my client believes,' he said. My client. It was the first time he'd used that term, and he didn't like the sound of it. Was this what he was making of himself? A private investigator?
Krause was probably in his late forties, Leaphorn guessed, big-boned, lean and gristly, probably an athlete in college, with a shock of blondish hair just showing signs of gray. He was sitting on a high stool behind a table in a
