CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Instead of grabbing something to eat from the Trading Post, Starr drained what was left of the fifth of whiskey under the seat of the old Bronco before she returned to the community center—and what awaited her there.

The marshal’s office, such as it was, had file boxes stacked around its entire inner perimeter. A bathroom jutted off the back of the rectangular building like an afterthought. Someone had recently equipped the space with three metal desks that looked like they’d been salvaged from a midcentury banking institution, along with a trio of swivel chairs and a drip coffee maker with hard-water stains rimming the carafe. There was a CB radio that was probably meant to serve as the official dispatch, but both Starr and Winnie had decided to rely on the landline and their cell phones, since neither of them had the expertise to get the antiquity up and running.

The BIA might have been so eager to bring in a tribal marshal that they would’ve hired anyone who was warm and could hear thunder, as Starr’s dad used to say, but the bureau’s sense of urgency didn’t extend much past that point. Chief Byrd, aside from his response to the morning’s immediate matter of a homicide victim, seemed content to remain in the background with everyone else. Winnie was Starr’s best channel for rez information.

“Just missed Odeina,” Winnie said from the desk she’d scooted under one of the two windows in the long wall opposite the jail cell. Winnie’s height barely reached the badge on Starr’s chest, and so far she’d worn an assortment of bright housedresses to work, accompanied by Crocs of different and equally loud colors. Almost every inch of her desk was covered in plants; they’d multiplied since yesterday.

“Was just at her house, so I’ve talked to her.”

“Ooh,” Winnie said, and went back to her sudoku puzzle. Without looking over her shoulder, she pointed the eraser of her pencil at the box. “He’s hungry.”

Inside the cell, the thin man lying on the cot, with his feet propped on the wall, revived himself.

“…and then dip it in grease,” he muttered up at the ceiling, as if he’d woken in the middle of a conversation.

“Fry bread,” Winnie said. She shrugged at Starr and went back to the dog-eared puzzle book in front of her. “Joseph must have been dreaming about it.”

She’d forgotten all about him.

Winnie said as far as she knew, they’d always kept the marshal’s office unlocked, so Joseph could put himself to bed in the box once in a while. Starr had closed the cell during the meeting last night, and in all the ruckus had failed to open it again.

“Gets confused,” Winnie said.

“I’ll bet.” Starr could see a wrinkled paper bag shaped like a forty-ounce lying beside the cot.

Joseph was standing now, pressing his face between two bars, chanting, “Eggs and bacon, eggs and bacon,” keeping time like he was watching powwow dancers.

“Joseph, let’s see what we can do about that,” said Starr as she unlocked the door. There was a ripe odor of rising heat mixed with stale beer and sweat. Maybe she could get Winnie to run to the Trading Post and grab a sandwich for him. Breakfast had come and gone hours ago, but it didn’t seem like he cared.

Starr, holding her breath, was guiding Joseph to the exit when a man she’d never seen before popped up from a perp chair beside her desk, knocking over a big ficus Winnie must have dragged in from somewhere. He immediately assumed the fig-leaf position, hands clasped over his crotch like he’d just taken a bite of forbidden fruit. He was young. Wet behind the ears. Fresh. Maybe thirty, thirty-two.

He started toward her, his face alive with questions, but Starr reached casually for the handle of her service weapon. This seemed to immediately dissuade the man from approaching, although he didn’t seem alarmed.

“Haven’t had nothin’ all night,” Joseph complained. “It’s not right, shutting me in here. It’s abuse. I got rights. At least get me an egg sandwich. I’d even take a…”

Starr ignored him, looking instead to the shiny young man.

As if she’d asked him a question, the man rolled up onto the balls of his feet.

“Shane,” he said, pumping her hand. His touch was clammy, and Starr wiped her palm on her pants when he’d finally released his catch. “Shane Minkle.”

When she didn’t reply, he kept going. “They sent me over from town. Mayor heard about the…uh”—he leaned in close—“incident. Said you could use a little help over here, so I’m on loan.” He saw her expression and tumbled onward. “What I mean is, uh, I’m sure you’ve got it under control, but, yeah, I’m your new right-hand man,” he trailed off doubtfully.

“C’mon,” she said, heading to the door and herding Joseph along with her. “Get your own breakfast, buddy. Lunch, dinner, whatever. Go to the Trading Post; get whatever you want.” She pulled a twenty from her pocket, and Joseph snatched it before leaving without a backward glance.

Starr kept moving. Winnie tailed her out the door. Minkle followed.

“Look, Winnie, I need you to do something for me, about the”—she looked Minkle over, unsure whether she wanted to loop him in—“someone we found this morning. Can you put out some feelers, see if there’s any rumors going around that might be helpful for me to know about…well, about anything? Call me if you hear something interesting. Anything at all.”

“About Chenoa?”

“About anyone,” Starr said. Why not let Minkle hear? Might as well sprinkle some factual information into the rumor mill. “The woman Chak found was not Chenoa. There’s still no clear evidence that Chenoa didn’t just leave for a few days, stay with friends, whatever. Maybe she went back to the university and just didn’t feel like checking in. It’s a little early to panic.”

“So who was it?” Winnie said.

“We aren’t sure whose body was found this morning.”

The search for Chenoa would have to wait. Starr would have to sort this thing with Minkle later. She had a dead girl to meet at the morgue.