The Ties That Bind (2 page)

"Thanks, hon." She glanced at me. "So we should expect her to get here any time between Monday and Friday," she continued as she slathered cream cheese on her bagel.

I watched, wondering how the hell it was possible to find something like cream cheese on a bagel so damn sexy. Maybe it was her fingers. "Who?"

"Kara." Sage looked up at me, and her expression told me I was busted in my reverie about her. "Your younger sister? In California?"

I grinned sheepishly. "Oh, yeah. Her."

Sage raised her eyebrows in amusement.

"I'll try to get her narrowed down to a thirty-six-hour window. But you know how she is." I sighed and took the last bite of my eggs.

She smiled again. "I do. But you know you love her."

I shrugged.

"Let's see...what did your mom call her...Ah. A 'free spirit.' I seem to recall she said the same thing about someone else in your life. Now who could that possibly be?" A little smile danced at the corners of her mouth. She took a bite of her bagel.

"You're different," I said, reaching for the cream cheese.

Sage regarded me, waiting for me to remove my foot from my mouth.

"Kara's my sister. I'm supposed to express long-suffering frustration about her freaky tree-hugging self. Sibling rivalry and all that." I spread cream cheese on my own bagel.

"'Freaky? Tree-hugging'?" Sage giggled. "This from Miss Where's-the-free-trade-coffee?"

I shrugged, trying not to laugh as I took a bite of my bagel.

"Miss 'honey, don't throw that away, you can recycle it'?"

I swallowed and flashed a grin at her. "But at least I'm not living in a redwood."

"I thought Kara finished that campaign."

"She did. But still." I picked up my coffee cup. "Don't worry," I said, catching Sage's eye. "I'll call her and find out when she'll be breezing into town."

Sage air-kissed me.

"Hey," I said, changing the subject, "does that artist friend of yours still live up near Farmington? The Navajo woman?"

"That narrows it down in that part of the state," Sage responded, eyes twinkling. "And yes, she does."

"You think she'd be willing to talk to me about something completely unrelated to art?" I set my cup down on the table and Sage looked at me, waiting for me to drop whatever nutty idea I had into her lap. "No, nothing crazy," I assured her. "I just don't know that much about Navajo beliefs surrounding death and I was thinking about incorporating some stuff about the Navajo Rez and jurisdiction over violent crime into one of my classes this fall."

"What the hell did you read in the paper this morning?" she teased, bumping my leg under the table with her foot.

"The usual. Destruction. Mayhem. And that's just politics." I grinned at her.

"I had to fall for an academic," Sage said in an exaggerated stage whisper. "How did
that
happen?"

"I'm sort of charming." I batted my eyelashes at her.

"True. And fucking sexy," she said in a tone of voice that always made my insides melt.

I blushed and she laughed. "Ellen Tsosie," she pronounced. "I'm sure she'll enjoy enlightening you.
Bilagaana
provide her with endless amusement." She took a sip of her coffee. "I'll get her e-mail address for you."

"So us white folk make her laugh but she doesn't mind helping us out? Cool." I reached for my bagel. "And she's not on the Rez?" Most of the Navajo Reservation had little access to electricity, let alone computers.

"A lot of her family still is. She lives in town, though." Sage finished her coffee and stood. "Thanks for breakfast, honey. It was great." She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. I blushed again and Sage laughed as she took our empty plates into the kitchen.

"Don't worry about it," I called after her. "I'll clean up. Go get your stuff ready." I stood and picked up our cups.

Sage appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "Thanks, sweets. You're the best." She moved to the table and pulled me down into a long, lingering kiss that left me weak in the knees. I let my breath out when she released me.

"Damn," I muttered.

"Indeed." She pecked me on the cheek and headed for the guest room, which we used as office space and a place to store all her photography gear. I finished cleaning off the table then washed dishes and wiped down the stove. The
Journal
rested on the counter, like it was waiting for me to do something with it. I wiped my hands off with a towel and opened it to the article about the dead man on the reservation. I carefully tore it out and took it to my desk in the guest room, where I taped it to the edge of my computer monitor as a reminder. I heard Sage in the shower and debated going online and seeing what I could find about Navajo jurisdiction in cases like this when my cell phone rang. I checked the ID and grinned.

"Hey, Detective Rock Star," I answered. "What's up? Your taskmaster boss got you working another icky murder case? And on Sage's art opening day?"

"
Hola
,
esa
," Chris said with her customary
Nuevomexicana
greeting. "Damn, you're psychic. How did I not know that my best friend is psychic after all these years? Jerry did call and I do have to go in to work for a few--love that on a Saturday--but we should still make Sage's opening. We might be a little late, though. Sorry." She sounded frustrated.

"No problem. Not like police work ever goes on vacation. Or Jerry, for that matter. Your boss is way scarier than mine,
mujer
."

"Not as scary as some of the
pendejos
I have to deal with outside the police department. Don't get me started on this,
chica
."

I cleared my throat. "If it's any consolation, you get a lot of them off the street. And you of all people know how slowly the wheels of justice turn."

"I'll be retired before some of these cases go to trial," she grumbled.

"And you and Dayna can hang out on the porch with me and Sage. We'll all have our own personal rockers."

She chuckled. "That'd be a sight. So when are you going up?"

"Soon. We'll leave in about an hour. Sage has a meeting in Santa Fe so she'll drop me off at the gallery and I'll finish getting things set up." I sat down in my desk chair and spun around.

"Sounds good. I'll call you if it looks like we're running late."

"Call the gallery if you can't get through to me or Sage. Cell phone service is iffy up there." I pushed with my feet and rolled on the hardwood floor along the edge of the Turkish rug and ended up near the doorway to the hall, feet propped on the arm of the futon-couch we kept in there for guests.

"Jackson's, right?" Chris double-checked. I heard her moving papers around. "Okay.
Dame el número, por favor
."

I gave her the number as Sage walked in, wrapped in a towel. She looked at me, expression questioning. I mouthed "Chris" to her and she smiled and reached for the phone.

"Somebody wants to talk to you," I said to Chris before I handed the phone to Sage.

"Officer Gutierrez," Sage said, "I need a favor. Can you bring a couple of bottles of that wine we like? We're not going to have time to get it and I'd like a wider assortment of New Mexico alcohol." She paused, listening, then started laughing. "That's a hard bargain. I'm sure K.C. won't mind if we have another dinner party over here, though." She looked at me and smiled then finished up with Chris. "That'd be great. Thanks. See you later." She handed the phone back to me and left the room.

"You've been Saged," I said, grinning.

"Damn,
esa
. Nobody can refuse your girlfriend," Chris replied, laughing.

"I know." I pretended a long-suffering air. "If she asked you to hold up a bank, the only thing you'd want to know is when and where." I pushed my chair back across the floor toward my desk, skimming along the edge of the rug again. "Hey, does Dayna want to come up with us, since Jerry's making you go to work?"

"She's at the office today, too. She's got a few big cases coming up and she gets to be the main prosecutor, so she's making sure she knows her shit."

"Like there's any doubt." I rolled my chair across the floor again, this time toward Sage's desk.

"True."

I heard Chris's smile through the phone. "You are so in love," I crowed. "Totally. Big, bad cop chick falls for hard-edged but groovy lawyer. That could be a new program on Showtime. Hot lezzie police detective refuses to believe anyone will ever want her because of the weird hours and nasty shit she has to deal with. Enter hot lezzie attorney with a great laugh who thinks her job is her life. Their eyes meet at a conference and--I see it now. 'Law and Disorder.' "

Chris started laughing again. "I knew there was a reason I've kept you around the last twelve years. Your damn jokes."

"My undying loyalty as your best friend in the whole world isn't it?" I tried to sound hurt.

"Well, there's that."

"Duh!" I laughed as well and rolled back to my desk. My gaze fell on the article I'd taped to the computer. "Okay, quick jurisdiction

question."

"Jesus, Kase. What'd you do?"

"Nothing, yet. I'm preparing, should that come to pass. You know how I am about research."

"Sadly, I do. What's up?"

I pulled the article off the computer. "Dead white guy on the Navajo Rez. Who handles the investigation?"

"Depends. Since he's white--has the medical examiner established that yet?"

"Don't know. I assume so, since it says in the paper that he is." I scanned the text again.

"Okay, so operating under that assumption," Chris continued, "how did he die?"

"They don't know. The article says 'authorities speculate the man was hit by a car.' So I'm guessing lots of blunt force trauma and injuries consistent with that."

Chris made a sound in the affirmative. "That's not much info. But here's where it could get sticky. If he was killed on the reservation--and if he was killed by someone who's Navajo--then the tribal police are major players in the investigation. However, since it's a murder on Indian land, the feds could get involved if they feel it's warranted. Serious crimes like that--
if
a crime was perpetrated--in Indian country mean the feds can follow up, but ultimately, jurisdiction depends on the circumstances of the case. I'm sure the feds will at least check it out. The vic is white--any info on the perp?"

"No. Just speculation based on the victim's injuries. And he was out there for a few days before somebody found him. Isolated road and all. He might have died some other way." I studied the article. Whatever it was, it wasn't "natural."

"Shit. It's hot out there. Decomposition probably didn't help matters any," Chris mused. "It's been dry, though. Monsoons ended three weeks ago." I was thinking aloud, spinning around in my chair. "Anybody know how he got out there?" "No. Ten miles outside Shiprock. No car. No ID. I thought maybe some locals rolled him. I'd argue he was from Farmington."

"Most likely," Chris said, though she didn't sound convinced. "Still, they might have just been screwing around and took him out there then left him there as a joke and somebody
else
came along later and killed him. And that person might have been Navajo. And it might have been an accident. Maybe whoever hit him didn't see him. Just hit a bump, didn't think anything of it. Since people aren't wandering around out there for the most part, why would whoever hit the guy--if that's what happened--think he'd hit a person?"

I loved bouncing ideas around with Chris. She approached police work the way I approached my own research. She didn't buy into any one explanation unless the evidence led her there. I posed another question. "So since the guy was white, the feds could have jurisdiction over his body. But since they won't know for sure what killed him until after an autopsy, the investigation is either on hold or being handled by tribal police and feds?"

"Since he was white, yes," Chris concurred. "The feds probably get to deal with the body. But this investigation might be problematic if a Navajo killed him. And since the vic is white, Navajo authorities may have already released the body for autopsy."

"But it fucks up the investigation regardless, because the longer you wait--"

"The colder the trail gets. And you know how things are between tribal police forces and federal law agencies. No love lost there. So what's up with this?" she asked, interested.

"I thought it'd make a good case study for my sociology of crime class. How race and the sovereignty of Indian nations can affect how a crime is approached and how it's handled and, hopefully, solved. I like to do 'ripped from the headlines' shit. And since it's a local case, the kiddies might resonate with it."

"I love it when you sound all smart like that," Chris said, laughing. "It
does
sound interesting. Maybe I'll poke around in that one. I'll see if I know anybody at the Farmington department."

"That'd be awesome,
mujer
. I might turn this into a semester-long 'see how this shit can affect people today' project thingie."

Chris chuckled. "Nice use of technical terms. Anyway, I've gotta jet,
esa
."

"Okay, go save the world and all that. We'll see you when we see you." I stuck the article back on my computer monitor.

"
Gracias
.
Hasta
."

"Yep. Later, gator." We hung up and I was about to put my phone on my desk when I remembered to call Kara. One ring. Two. Three...voicemail. I sighed.

"Hi, it's Kara. Leave a message and I'll get back to you soon. Breathe, reflect, and have a lovely day!"

"Hey, it's me," I said. "Sage and I need to know when you'll be coming. Give me a buzz when you get a chance. Thanks. Hope you're all right. Later." And you have yourself a super groovy ultra-peaceful day! I hung up and set the phone on my desk, thinking about Kara, who somehow got stuck in the sixties though she was born in 1973.

Nobody on either side of our family knew where Kara's sensibilities came from. My dad's side--the Italian half--gave up on her when she entered high school and proclaimed herself a vegan and started wearing tie-dye shirts she found in second-hand clothing stores. My mom's side--from staid New England stock, some of whom ended up in Texas--wondered what the hell the Italian side did to her while she was growing up. My older sister Joely, who taught literature at a private liberal arts college back East, considered Kara an amusing anomaly and wrote short stories with hippie characters based on her. For my part, I just hoped Kara wouldn't get herself involved in some freaky underground eco-cult that I'd have to infiltrate. I stood and stretched, sighing. I'd done my sibling duty and left a message.