Before Sunrise

She lifted an eyebrow. “You didn’t like him.”

“He grows on you.”

She smiled. “He’s my cousin. I think he’s terrific. He may strut a little, but he’s smart and brave. You could do a lot worse,” she added.

Phoebe glared. “He’s only giving me shooting lessons,” she said firmly. “I’m still not ready to get interested in a man, overused or not.”

Marie ignored that. “He’ll look out for you. So will my other cousins and my brother, if you need it,” she told her. “You’ve done a lot for us. We don’t forget favors, especially with family.”

“I don’t have a drop of Native American blood, Marie,” Phoebe said firmly.

Marie grinned. “You’re still family,” she mused, and turned away. “I’ll get to work.”

Phoebe watched her go absently, her mind still on the dead man. It was upsetting that someone she’d spoken to the day before had been murdered. What was also upsetting was the destruction of a potentially precious site. If there were Neanderthal remains at a construction site—although she seriously doubted it—it would rewrite the history not only of North Carolina, but of the continent. Certainly it would shut down the developer, no question. Was that a reason to kill a human being? Phoebe, who had no love of money past being able to pay her bills, couldn’t comprehend what some people might do for great wealth.

SHE WENT ABOUT HER BUSINESS for the next two days. Drake stopped by to tell her that the FBI agent had arrived, but he was oddly reticent about anything else. And he gave her a look that kept her awake. On Friday morning, she understood what it meant.

Just as she was getting ready to welcome a group of elderly visitors from a local nursing home, a black car pulled up at the steps. It had a government license plate. The FBI no doubt, she thought idly, watching for the tour bus.

But the man who got out of the car froze her in her tracks. He had long black hair in a ponytail. He was wearing a gray vested suit and sunglasses. He came up the steps and stopped dead in front of Phoebe. He took off the glasses and hung them by one earpiece from his vest pocket.

“Hello, Phoebe,” Cortez said quietly. He didn’t smile. His scarred face looked leaner and harder than she remembered it. There were new lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked as if he’d never smiled in his life. His black eyes were penetrating, cold, all business.

She lifted her chin. She didn’t scream and throw things, which was how she felt. She forced herself to look composed and professional. “Hello, Cortez,” she replied, with equal formality and deliberately not using his first name. “What can I do for you?”

“A deputy sheriff named Drake—” he pulled out a pad and made a production of looking for the man’s name, which he knew quite well already “—Stewart said that you spoke to the victim the night before his body was found. I’d like to have a word with you, if you have time.”

She swallowed hard. “You’re investigating the case?”

He nodded. “I’m back with the FBI. I’m part of a new unit being set up specifically to investigate violent crime on Indian Reservations nationwide.”

She wanted to ask why he’d given up law, when he loved it so. She wanted to ask why he’d deserted her with nothing more informative than a newspaper clipping, when he’d looked at her as if he loved her. But she didn’t.

“Come into my office. Just a minute, please.” She stopped and called to Harriett, who was taking a break. “Harriett, there’s a busload of people coming from the nursing home. Can you take it? I have to speak to this gentleman.”

Harriett lifted an eyebrow as she looked at Cortez, who towered over both women. “At least the government’s taste has improved,” she murmured dryly, and went out front to meet the bus, which was just pulling into the parking lot.

Cortez didn’t react to the comment. Neither did Phoebe. She went into her office and offered him the only chair in front of her cluttered desk. He didn’t sit down because Marie walked in abruptly with a payroll report, since it was Friday. She paused when she saw their visitor. Her quick eyes took in his long hair and dark complexion, the suit and his businesslike bearing. “Siyo,” she said in Cherokee, a word of greeting as well as goodbye.

He lifted his chin and his eyes were hostile. “I don’t speak Cherokee. I’m Comanche,” he said bluntly.

She colored and cleared her throat. “Sorry.”

He didn’t say a word. He moved aside to let her put the report on Phoebe’s desk.

Marie exchanged a bland glance with Phoebe and beat a hasty retreat, closing the door behind her.

Phoebe sat down behind her desk and looked at Cortez. She folded her hands in front of her on the desk. They were working hands, with short nails and no polish. No rings, either.

“What can I do for you?” she asked professionally.

He looked at her for just a few seconds too long. His eyes darkened. There were shadows in them.

He pulled the notepad out of his pocket, crossed his long legs, flipped the pad open and checked his notes.

“You spoke to the man the day before his body was found,” he repeated. He took out a pen. “Can you tell me what he said?”

“He told me that a construction company was trying to cover up a potentially explosive archaeological site,” she replied. “Neanderthal remains.”

The pen stilled and he lifted his eyes to hers. He didn’t say a word.

“I know, it sounds preposterous,” she replied. “But he was quite serious. He said that the company was deeply in debt and afraid for the site to be discovered, for fear of being bankrupted during the excavation that would follow.”

“There are no recorded Neanderthal remains anywhere in North America,” he replied.

“I have a degree in anthropology,” she replied coldly, insulted by the insinuation that she wouldn’t know that. “Would you like to see it?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you,” she bit off. “Back to the subject at hand, please. I know it sounds outlandish, but the man seemed to know what he was talking about. I tried to trace his number. He’d blocked it.”

“They found your number on a pad beside his telephone, in a motel room. he registered under a false name and address. His ID is missing, except for a card designating him as a member of a national anthropological society.”

“If someone stole his credentials, why didn’t they take that, too?” she asked.

“It was under the bed. His wallet was thrown on his bed, empty of everything except a twenty-dollar bill. They must have emptied it there. Maybe they tore up the anthropology society ID card and that piece of it fell and they didn’t notice. Pretty good work otherwise, though. No obvious clues, although I had our crime technician check the room with a blue light for latent prints. There were none. I sealed off the room and I’ve already got our crime unit on the scene,” he added, naming a group whose purpose was specifically to gather and process trace evidence.

“How about footprints? Tire tracks?”

He shifted restlessly. He was recalling, as she must be, their cooperation in tracking down a polluter outside Charleston by following tire tracks. It was a time when she was young and full of life and hope and ambition. It was a different world.

He forced himself not to look back. “It’s early days. We’re checking that out. Had you ever heard his voice before?” he added.

She shook her head.

“He didn’t mention the developer’s name, anything that would help find him?”

She shook her head again.

He grimaced. “There are a number of possibilities, I’m told. Meanwhile,” he added, putting up the pad and pen to pierce Phoebe’s eyes with his own, “you’re the only link we have to a murder.”

“I could be the next victim,” she assumed.

“Yes.” He bit off the word, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I’ve already been told that. I have a dog,” she said. “And one of the deputy sheriffs is giving me shooting lessons tomorrow.”

Something touched his face, something cold and angry. “Do you have a gun?”