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NEL WOKE WITH A START. The hammering was not in her head, but on the door downstairs. She knew that knock — someone official. “Son of a whore, I don’t want to deal with vandals today.” If Los Pobladores did something bad enough to get the attention of the cops, they were in for trouble. “Probably trashed the Jeep again.” She tugged on her dig clothes from the day before and hurried downstairs. Being Saturday morning, everyone else was thankfully still in bed. Whatever new mess she had to handle was better done in private.
The officer downstairs was one she recognized from the year before when she filed for her local permits. The heavy-set man behind him was wearing the official uniform of the Policia de Investigaciones.
She stopped on the stairs. “Fuck, Munoz, what now? I’ve told you a thousand times, there’s no use pressing charges. You agreed with me about it last time.”
The officer’s grim lines deepened. “Nel, please.”
“Dr. Nel Bently?” The other man stepped forward.
“Yeah?” She crossed her arms. As a rule, she disliked anything bigger than the local governments.
“You got a digger named Servais?”
“He’s my site manager, yeah. I haven’t seen him this morning, but I can go get him. What’s up?” A door opened and shut above her. A moment later Chad appeared a step behind her. Nel flashed him a weak smile.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Dr. Bently, but Dr. Servais is dead.”
The still air roared in Nel’s ears. The stairs pitched under her feet and suddenly she was sitting and Chad’s hands were on her shoulders. “I’m sorry?”
Munoz pressed a glass of water into her hand. “Some local boys found his body off the main road a few miles out of town. Looks like homicide.”
Nel abruptly remembered why she disliked big-city cops. The further they were from actual people the further they were from reality. Words like “homicide” and “investigation” meant nothing when your best friend was dead.