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I froze. Halfway down the driveway, masked in the lengthening shadows of early evening, a man lay face down on the gravel slope. Fear of doing the wrong thing kept me immobile for a few seconds. I’d found a body before, and it was stressful beyond belief.

The thought that he might still be alive jolted me into action. I hurried down the slope, my loafers slipping a little on the deep gravel as I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. I punched 911 and then gingerly knelt beside the man.

Homeless, was my first instinct. His clothes—jeans and a denim shirt—were dirty and torn in a couple of places, and his black hair was a mess.

I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and touched his wrist. It wasn’t warm.

“Police dispatch,” said a female voice on my phone. “What is your emergency?”

“I just found a man in the driveway,” I said, feeling short of breath. “I think he may be dead.”

“What address?”

I gave it to her. Glanced toward the house, wondering if I should get Nat. The sky was patched with clouds, not enough for rain but enough to cast a chill over the early evening.

“Is he breathing?”

I looked back at the man. “I don’t know...he’s face down.”

“Can you turn him over?”

A flash of memory—Tony scowling at me—You realize that’s tampering with evidence. But he’d admitted later that I’d done right to try to see if Sylvia could be saved.

I swallowed. “I’ll try. Hold on.”

I put the phone down and gingerly pushed at the guy’s uphill side. He budged, so I steeled myself to push harder until I succeeded in rolling him onto his back.

“Oh!”

I choked back a sob. His face was bruised and swollen. He looked Indian. Probably from Tesuque, it was the nearest pueblo.

My phone made a noise. I picked it up.

“I’m here. He’s been beaten.”

“I’m sending an ambulance. Can you tell if he has a pulse?”

“Hang on.”

I tried feeling his wrist, then his throat, but I was scared and didn’t know how to find a pulse. His skin was cold. Holding my breath, I put my ear to his chest. I heard nothing.

I straightened up, aware that my own pulse was rocketing. “I’m pretty sure there’s no pulse,” I told the dispatcher, my voice quavering. “Not breathing.”

A siren began to wail in the distance.

He was dead. In that moment, I was sure.

The dispatcher kept me talking. I answered her questions, feeling numb as I looked down at the stranger’s poor, abused face. Not homeless, I decided. His skin didn’t have that leathery texture that people get from poor nutrition and living outdoors. He seemed fairly young, from what I could tell.

The sun was setting and the temperature was dropping. The sirens got louder. I thought of warning Nat, but decided I should stay where I was.

The wailing became painful, then stopped abruptly. A squad car turned into the driveway and skidded to a stop with a crunch of gravel. It backed out and moved a short way up the street.

Seconds later a rescue squad pulled up and two men jumped out. One of them ran toward me while the other went to the back of the vehicle.

“They’re here,” I said into my phone.

“All right, ma’am. Give them the details.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

The EMT—blond, muscular, probably a former quarterback—dropped to his knees on the other side of the dead man and put a hand to his throat, then looked up at me, frowning.

“How long has he been here?”

“I don’t know. I called the minute I found him.”

The other tech came up, carrying a box of medical stuff. He was shorter and darker, stocky. “’Scuse me,” he said without making eye contact.

I got out of his way, standing and taking a couple of steps back. The two techs traded a glance and the first one shook his head.

A car door chunked shut and I saw a uniformed policewoman jogging toward me. A door slam from the direction of the house made me turn. Nat had come out and stood on the portal, staring down toward the mess.

“Ellen Rosings?” said the cop as she reached me.

I glanced at her. “Yes—my aunt—it’s her house.”

I started toward Nat and the cop came along. “Don’t go down there, Nat,” I said. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Ms. Rosings, I need ask you a few questions.” The cop looked at Nat. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”

Nat was frowning down the driveway, but at this question she looked at the cop. “Yes. Come in. I’d better make some coffee. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just found him when I was about to leave.”

“Where could we talk?” asked the cop.

I looked at her, noting her impatience. Maybe she didn’t want me to discuss things with Nat before answering her questions. She was Hispanic, hair pulled back in an efficient bun. A little shorter than I, and wiry. Not as bulky as the body armor made her look.

“We could go in the living room,” I said. “OK, Nat?”

My aunt nodded, worry making tight lines around her mouth. “I’ll bring the coffee in.”

I led the cop through the kitchen and dining room, past the work table that we had left up—piled with fabric and Nat’s half-finished dress—to a couple of chairs by the empty kiva fireplace. Late sunlight slanted in from the western windows; I closed the blinds, then took a seat.

The cop took out a tablet. “I’ll need your name, phone number, address.”

I gave them to her, then answered her questions, most of which the dispatcher had also asked me. The initial stress of finding the body had faded, leaving me feeling sad and tired.

“Is the man outside someone you know, or someone you’ve seen in the neighborhood?”

I shook my head.

“Has there been any trouble in your aunt’s family?”

“No. I don’t think he has anything to do with us. He might have been looking for help, but...” I shrugged.

The house wasn’t far from the frontage road of the highway that ran north from Santa Fe. If someone had trouble on that road and went seeking help on foot, Nat’s could easily be the first driveway they came to.

“Have you had any contact from strangers recently? Wrong numbers or hang-ups?”

“I don’t live here. You should ask my aunt.”

“I will, but I’m asking you, too. That’s your car outside, right?”

“Yes. You’re thinking he followed me here?”

“It’s possible.”

She met my gaze, waiting. I didn’t like the feeling I got from her—a low-key, underlying hostility—but Tony had been like that, too, at first.

“No, I haven’t had any strange calls lately, or anything like that,” I said.

She made a note on her tablet, then looked up as Nat came in with a tray holding a half-full pot of coffee and two cups. She put it down on the low table before me and straightened.

“I’m going to take some coffee down to the paramedics,” she said. “I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

The cop made no objection as Nat left. I picked up the pot. “Would you like some?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

I poured, then added sugar and cream to my cup and took a big swallow. I suspected it would be a long evening.

Gina! Movie night!

I reached in my purse for my phone. “Excuse me, do you mind if I make a call? I was supposed to be somewhere tonight.”

“Go ahead.”

The cop kept making notes on her tablet, and didn’t offer me privacy. I punched Gina’s number and stood, pacing a few steps away.

Gina picked up, and I could hear the grin in her voice. “If you’re calling to offer to bring wine, don’t bother. I’ve got lots.”

“Gina, I’m not going to make it. I’m still at Nat’s. There’s—well, there’s a sort of emergency.”

“Is Nat all right?” Her voice had gone serious.

“She’s fine. It’s just—um, I found a guy in her driveway. The police are here.”

“Oh, crap. Was this guy dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Ellen, you have to stop finding bodies.”

“This is only the second one!”

In a year.

“Third,” she said. “You found Vi.”

“Not by myself! There was a whole group of us.” I glanced toward the cop, who was, of course, listening. “Look, I’d better go. I’ll call you later. Sorry about dinner.”

“I’ll save some for you. Come by when you’re free.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Hey, you’ve gotta eat, and I made a whole pan of lasagna. I’m not going to eat it all myself. I’ll just do my nails in the meantime.”

“I’ll call you.”

“OK. Take care, hon.”

“Thanks.”

I returned to my chair and put the phone away. Took another swig of coffee. The cop hadn’t touched hers.

“So you’d never seen this guy before?”she asked.

I bit back impatience at the question I’d already answered twice. “No. At first I thought he was homeless.”

“Why?”

“Because his clothes were dirty and torn. I didn’t realize until I turned him over that he must have been in a fight.”

“So he was face down when you found him?”

“That’s right. I thought I’d said so.”

She referred to her tablet. “Yeah, you did. So why do you think he came up here?”

“I have no idea. Like I said, maybe he was looking for help.”

I heard the front door close, then Nat’s swift footsteps. “Ellen? The policemen outside want to talk to you.”

I looked at the cop. She nodded, and stood.

“Ms. Rosings?” she said to Nat.

“No, dear. My name is Wheeler.”

“Wheeler, sorry. Can I ask you a few questions?”

I headed outside, relieved to be off the witness chair. The sun had almost set by now, and several more emergency vehicles had arrived: two squad cars; a third, unmarked, black sports car that had a spotlight and multiple antennae; and an ambulance. As I walked down the drive the ambulance pulled away, and I realized the body was gone.

“Here she is,” said the quarterback EMT, who was standing with two uniformed cops and a guy in jeans and a western shirt. They all turned to look at me.

“Miss Rosings?” said the plainclothes guy. He was tall, with a craggy face, brown hair and mustache, and sharp eyes. He pulled out a badge case and flipped it open just long enough for me to see a glimpse of gold inside. “I’m Zeke Walters. I’ve been assigned to your case.”

It isn’t my case.

I kept the thought to myself and swallowed disappointment that Tony wasn’t here instead. I gave him a civil nod. “Hello.”

He asked me a couple of the same questions I’d been asked twice before. I tried to answer patiently.

“Ever seen the guy before?” Walter said.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I didn’t recognize him,” I said. “At first I thought he was homeless.”

“Too clean.” He reached toward one of the cops, who handed him a plastic evidence bag. He showed it to me. “This yours?”

The bag held a knife, which sent my memory spinning back a few weeks to when Tony and I had found the knife used to murder Victor Solano. My pulse took a jump.

“No,” I said, frowning as I saw the colored shapes on the handle, “but it looks familiar. May I look closer?”

He handed me the bag. “Don’t open it.”

Holding it gingerly, I carried it to a patch of sunlight. Turquoise, malachite, and sugilite glowed mutely inside the plastic.

“It looks like some knives I saw at the flea market this morning.”

Walters took the bag back. “The Indian flea market?”

“Yes. My aunt and I went there to buy some buttons.”

“Where’d you go after that?”

“We came back here and sewed all day. I was about to leave when I found ... that poor man.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, but I’d endured enough interrogation in the past few months that I wasn’t easily flustered.

After a long pause, Walters took out a cell phone and started punching at it. I debated whether to ask permission to leave or just go, then he held the phone up to me.

“Seen him before?”

The photo looked like a driver’s license shot. Young Indian man, pleasant face, not quite smiling. Very familiar.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I think he’s the one who was selling the knives.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No. I was going to ask if he could make a belt buckle, but I got distracted.”

Walters stared at me, still holding the phone. “What else?”

I shrugged. “That’s all I remember.”

“You saw him again.”

It wasn’t a question. I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, you did. Right here.”

My heart sank. “That’s him?”

“Yes ma’am. That’s the dead guy.”