CHAPTER NINETEEN

FRIDAY

Starr caught the scent of coffee beans from the sidewalk well before she reached the entrance to Dexter Springs’ only downtown coffee shop. As she entered Rita’s Roast, the jangle of sleigh bells hanging from the door didn’t even get on her nerves. She was thinking about Chak’s sketch and the half dozen or so black pickups she’d spotted that morning alone.

There was a Route 66 placard mounted prominently above a counter fronted by four empty stools that kept watch over several tables, most of them occupied at this time of day. The chatter of old men who had settled in for a morning of coffee refills, and of young mothers momentarily free of their school-age children, ceased at the sight of Starr’s uniform, but she smiled and nodded as she made her way to the counter. It was time to cast a line.

Starr looked over a plastic-covered menu, then ordered a maple long john and a brewed coffee from a woman whose name tag said Maggie. Starr added a splash of cream when the coffee arrived, and casually clocked the room while stirring it to the color of mahogany. Her stomach growled, loudly enough that Maggie laughed good-naturedly as she handed her the bar-shaped doughnut.

Starr took a careful sip from the paper cup. It was coffee, all right, but not the best she’d ever had. She sat at a two-person table, with her back to the empty counter, and offered a friendly smile to anyone who made eye contact. That should do it, she thought, and settled in until it was time to set the hook.

The moms finished and went on their way, but they weren’t the pond Starr was fishing in. It was the old men. Her first partner on the Chicago police force, long since retired, said the local co-op where farmers gathered was the place for gossip. Turned out he was right, and not just about the co-op. Eventually she discovered that his advice translated to all kinds of settings, even this one.

As Starr sipped her coffee, she knew she’d guessed right: The local men gathered here every morning, and hashed out news, rumors and more. And they were a curious lot, eager for fodder. It was only a matter of time.

She watched as a lanky fellow in worn blue jeans and dirty cowboy boots stood from where he’d been parked at a crowded table.

“Crazy Horse,” he said, coming toward her, carrying his cup of coffee. “Or are you Sitting Bull?” Starr made a show of glancing confusedly behind her, then pointed to her chest and mouthed, Me?

“Horace-Wayne Holder.” He stuck out a hand, level with the detail of his silver-plated belt buckle. “I’m just jokin’ with ya—take it easy. You can call me Holder.”

Starr gave his hand a hard shake, then leaned back in her chair to cross her right boot on her left knee. Don’t jerk the line yet, she thought.

“So, you’re the law in these here parts.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “I mean, those reservation parts. Not here here.” He looked at his posse, who were pretending not to watch. “You don’t look Indian. Or maybe you do. Hard to tell anymore. Surprised you have time to relax, with that girl who’s gone missing.” He pointed to a grainy flyer. “Probably drugs. Lots of that out there. Big problem.”

Starr peered at the flyer and Chenoa’s eyes stared back at her, ink on paper. How had Chenoa dealt with this kind of racism? Starr knew Odeina had plastered flyers all around the Trading Post, where she worked, and it looked like she’d been here too. Were the flyers all over town?

“Ah, you know, getting the lay of the land. Gotta figure out what’s what. Fuel up.”

“Well, what I figure is with that new pipeline business going through there, all them Indians can afford to spend a little money on a policeman of their own, get their hands off our tax dollars.”

Starr raised her eyebrows.

“Marshal,” she said. “Bureau of Indian Affairs, more like it.”

Holder pulled up a chair from the table behind him and sat backward in it, leaning his chin on the backrest, balancing a cup of coffee on his knee.

“Is that so? Hope you know what you got yourself into. It’s rough out there, not like in town where we’re all civilized and such.”

“Oh, here we go,” said a white-haired man at a nearby table, goading him on. “It’s getting deep in here.” He looked at Starr’s feet. “Good thing you got boots on.” The men at the table erupted in laughter.

Starr took an enormous bite of the long john, shards of maple icing falling to the plate. She smiled at him around the food as she chewed.

“See, to me it don’t make no sense,” Holder continued. “Why they ain’t done it sooner. Found a way to make some money, stop scrimping through life. Damn near every other tribe around here has a casino at least. But what do I know? Maybe they just don’t care how they live.”

Starr shrugged and took another bite. Let him keep talking.

“This latest girl, she’s what…the eighth, ninth girl that’s run off from the reservation? Or gone missing. Whatever.”

“You tell me,” Starr said. “I’m new here.”

“Well, don’t you think you oughta know?” He looked her over. “Ain’t that your business now?” He leaned back in the chair. “Way I see it, it ain’t got nothing to do with us. Not with Dexter Springs, not with anyone who isn’t on the rez.”

The door to the coffee shop jingled and Holder turned his attention to the entrance, long enough for Starr to take the temperature of the room. Everyone had relaxed into their conversations again. Time to jerk the line, set the hook. “Why’s that?”

“Meth, mostly. If they’re not making it, they’re taking it. Bad doin’s out there, ain’t no place for a nice girl.”

Starr wondered whether he meant her—although she hadn’t thought of herself as a girl in a long time—or the young women who were missing.

“Think about it. Why not girls from town? It’s just the Indian ones go missing, because they’re the ones either get messed up, mixed up or just plain run away.”

“Refill?” She stuffed the last of the long john into her mouth, wiped her hands on her uniform pants, stood and picked up a carafe of drip coffee from the counter, then topped off both their cups.

“Yeah, like I was saying, seems like it’s something real bad going on out there.”

“You don’t think they’re getting picked up,” Starr said, “maybe trying to hitchhike their way out?”

“Could be.” He blew on his coffee, contemplating. “I still keep on the chatter. Got a CB and scanner in my truck. I think if there was someone picking up girls wanting a ride somewhere, somebody would have seen or heard something. If I were a bettin’ man, I’d put money on a bad Indian going after his own.”

“You’re that sure.” Starr considered this for a moment. “What about around here?”

“I don’t know nothing about that. I’m just a simple man.” He winked. “Run a few head of cattle, drive a route checking oil wells for one of them outfits out of Oklahoma City. It’s not like we’ve got some crazy fool, somebody real bad, running around Dexter Springs. If we did, we’d all know about it by now.”

Starr shifted. Word gets around in a small town. And Holder had a point about the rez. Two girls who were thought to be missing a year ago had turned up with a known dealer. Not everyone who was believed to be in danger ended up with their name in a BIA file, which made the number of cold cases Starr had in her office all the more astonishing. Come to think of it, Junior Echo’s name had been in those files too. Petty stuff, warnings for public drunkenness or fighting. Maybe it was time to pay him another visit.

“Hey, you still with me, Crazy Horse?”

She laid a twenty on the counter. She had what she’d come for, an arrow of thought that would send her in a new direction.

“Yeah,” Starr said. “See you around.”