“Of course,” he said agreeably, turning back to Lani. “Since Miss Walker wants you here, you’re more than welcome to stay.”
The interview, conducted in the full glare of what was now midday sun, took an hour and a half. When it was over, Dan Leggett’s shirt and trousers were soaked through with sweat, and he was so parched he could barely talk. Lani still sat swathed in her blanket.
Despite her ordeal, Lani answered his questions with a poise that was surprising to see in someone so young. She responded to simple and complex questions alike with calm clarity. Her harrowing version of Mitch Johnson’s physical assault with the kitchen tongs was enough to make Leggett feel half sick, but Lani recounted her ordeal without seeming to be affected by what she was saying. Her steadiness made Leggett wonder if she was really as fine as she claimed or if, perhaps, she might still be suffering from shock.
“That’s about it,” he said, closing his notebook after the last of his questions. “I think we probably should get you into town and have you checked out by a doctor.”
“No,” Gabe Ortiz said firmly. “Lani has killed an enemy. She can’t go to town. She has to stay out here by herself, away from her village and family, until she finishes undergoing the purification ceremony.”
“How long will that take?” Leggett asked, imagining as he did so an evening’s worth of cedar drumming.
“Sixteen days,” Gabe Ortiz answered.
“Sixteen days? Even though it’s most likely self-defense, there’ll have to be an inquest or maybe even a preliminary hearing.”
“They will have to wait for the sixteen days,” Gabe Ortiz told him.
Leggett looked around at the empty desert. “She’s going to stay here? In the middle of nowhere?”
Ortiz nodded. “I’ve already sent my son off to pick up a tent and whatever other supplies she may need. I myself will bring her food and water. Her wounds will be treated in the traditional way.”
For the first time in the whole process, Lani Walker’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she said.
Diana met Brandon at the door when he came home from the hospital late that evening. “Is Quentin going to make it?”
Brandon paused long enough to hang his keys up on the Peg-Board. “Probably,” he said.
“And the bones?”
Brandon sank down beside the table and Diana brought him a glass of iced tea. “I called Dr. Sam,” he said. “He ran the dental profile through his computer. The bones they found at Rattlesnake Skull belong to Tommy, all right.”
Dr. Sam was short for Swaminathan Narayanamurty, a professor of biometrics at the University of Arizona. Together Dr. Sam and Brandon Walker had come up with the idea of amassing a database of dental records on reported Missing Persons from all over the country. Brandon Walker’s effective lobbying before a national meeting of the Law Enforcement and Security Administrators had enabled Dr. Sam to gain some key seed money funding years earlier. That initial grant had grown into a demonstration project.
During the election campaign, Bill Forsythe had brought that project up, implying that Brandon’s interest in the project had been based on personal necessity because of his own son’s unexplained disappearance rather than on sound law enforcement practices. Personal or not, the connection had been strong enough that on this warm summer Sunday, Dr. Sam had been only too happy to interrupt a week-long stay in a cabin on Mount Lemmon to run the profile of the skull Dan Leggett had retrieved from Rattlesnake Skull Charco.
“Detective Leggett says he thinks Quentin was in the process of moving the bones out of the cave for fear Johnson would see them, when Manny Chavez stumbled into the area. Quentin must have panicked and attacked the man.”
“I’m sorry,” Diana said. “About Quentin and Tommy.”
“Don’t be sorry about Tommy,” Brandon told her. “At least we know now that it was over quickly for him, that he didn’t suffer. It’s closure, Di. It’s something I’ve lain awake nights worrying about for years.”
The doorbell rang. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Brandon grumbled irritably. “Who can that be now?”
A moment later, a sunburned Candace Waverly appeared in the kitchen doorway. “It’s Detective Leggett,” she said. “He was wondering if he could see you two for a few minutes.”
Wearily, Brandon rubbed his whisker-stubbled chin. “Sure,” he said. “Send him on in.”
“Sorry to bother you,” the detective said, placing a worn Hartmann briefcase on the kitchen table. “I know you’ve both had a terrible two days of it, but I wanted to stop by and show you some of this before I turn it over to the property folks.”
Opening the case, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves. While he was putting them on, Diana glanced at the loose piece of paper—a faxed copy of a mug shot—that lay fully exposed in the open briefcase. A sharp intake of breath caused both men to look at her with some concern as all color drained from her face.
“Diana, what’s the matter?” Brandon demanded. “What’s wrong?”
Diana’s hand trembled as she reached out and picked up the paper. “It’s him,” she moaned. “Dear God in heaven, it is him!”
The paper fluttered out of Diana’s hand. Brandon caught it in midair and studied it himself. “That’s Mitch Johnson, all right,” he said.
“It may be Mitch Johnson, but it’s Monty Lazarus, too,” Diana whispered. “He looked older and he wore a red wig, but I’d recognize him anywhere.”
“Monty Lazarus!” Brandon repeated. “The reporter who interviewed you?”
“Yes.”
Confused, Detective Leggett looked from husband to wife. “Who the hell is Monty Lazarus?” he asked.
