Merciless (16 page)

No human response, just the buzzing click that signaled I could enter the inner sanctum.
I almost felt like I needed to wear a hooded robe and spout Latin as I opened the
door, especially when I caught a whiff of the musty air.

Although this floor was identical to the floors above it, the layout was completely
different. The main section was similar to the reference area at a library: rows and
rows of periodicals, a gigantic desk covered with computer equipment and ringed with
filing cabinets of all shapes, sizes, and colors. I didn’t get a chance to peer down
the hallway, as the man behind the desk was headed toward me.

He offered his hand first. Depending on how traditionally they were raised, some Indian
males shook hands with women and some didn’t, so I never assumed. “Special Agent Gunderson,
what a pleasure to see you again. I’m Sheldon War Bonnet, manager of the archives.
I don’t know if you remember me, but I helped you when you filled out the tribal registration
form.”

I didn’t remember him. “Nice to see you again, Mr. War Bonnet. The FBI appreciates
your cooperation.”

“Please, call me Sheldon.” He gestured to a sitting area I hadn’t noticed. “Coffee?”

I didn’t want to make idle chitchat with this guy, but since I’d be here all week,
I smiled. “That would be great.” I picked the overstuffed chair that faced the door—a
ridiculous superstition given I was in a locked room. But me ’n’ Wild Bill Hickok
had the same phobia about sitting with our backs to the door, and Wild Bill’s ignoring
his gut reaction had gotten him killed.

“Cream or sugar?” Sheldon asked.

“Black is fine.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He handed me the coffee and eased into the chair opposite
mine. “I didn’t get a chance to mention the one time you were in here that I knew
your father. He was good for the county. A great sheriff.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled into my coffee.

“Pity you lost the election.”

“The better man won, that’s for sure.”

“I suppose only time will tell.”

I covertly studied Sheldon as I sipped my coffee. He appeared to
be in his late fifties. A full-blooded Indian. His thick glasses gave off a wicked
reflection in the fluorescent lighting and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I assumed
they were brown. He wore a high-necked white T-shirt under a loose-fitting gray caftan
with a split neckline. His khaki pants bagged everywhere, and his feet were behind
the ottoman, so I couldn’t determine whether he wore beat-up Birkenstocks or dusty
hikers. He definitely held that old-hippie vibe—long black hair pulled into a ponytail,
soft-spoken voice, his gentle demeanor that put us on even footing from the start.

“So what brings the FBI here?”

I had to tread lightly. During training we learned to share the least information
about a case and how to redirect. And, if necessary . . . to lie. But I tried to stay
within a realm of truth. “What I’m looking for would fall under classified information.
But since I’m here as sort of a managerial punishment, the truth is I’m not sure where
to start.”

His eyes widened beneath his glasses. “Managerial punishment?”

“Off the record? Being the newbie agent in the office, I made the . . . ah, mistake
of spouting off a theory to the big boss, and now I’ve been relegated to research
said theory.”

“That sucks. For you.” He smiled. “Of course, I’m the type who prefers doing research
to anything else. I assume you have parameters, so I can at least direct you to the
correct archive?”

“That would be great. The cases I’ve been sent to research deal with a broad spectrum
of fraud and sexual violation involving minors.”

“Still a pretty broad definition.” Sheldon frowned at his coffee. “How far back?”

“Does that make a difference in which area I’ll start in or end up in?”

“No, just trying to be helpful. I assumed you’d begin with the police case files.”

I drained my coffee. “Between us? This is busywork. So I don’t care where I start.
Especially if you, as the expert, believe I’ll have better luck in a different area.”

Sheldon preened a bit at the word
expert.
“Since I don’t know specifics
on what you’re looking for, I suggest sticking to the police case files.” He set his
mug on the coffee table and unclipped a key ring from his belt loop. “I’ll get you
started in this room.”

Looking at the precisely organized boxes of case files, it was obvious that the tribal
PD could take organizational notes from Sheldon.

I’d compiled a list of obituaries I’d found online. Hard not to feel overwhelmed.
I took down the first box, dated five years previously, and went to work.

Damn depressing that I found over a dozen instances of unexplained deaths of young
women, including suspicious car accidents, assumed domestic violence, and drug overdoses.
But for nearly every single one of the cases, information from the tribal police had
been scant, at best, so I kept looking for more.

A loud rap on the door frame startled me, and I glanced up.

Sheldon said, “You have an incredible attention span. You haven’t moved for three
hours.”

“Really?” I switched my head from side to side to alleviate the stiffness in my neck.
“I attribute that more to stubbornness than anything else.”

“I usually close up at lunchtime for an hour.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose you could let me stay in here?”

“Afraid not. Tribal council rules prohibit anyone besides me being left unattended
in the archives.” He smiled. “And I’m betting the break will do you good anyway.”

I shut my notebook and shoved it in my purse. I gestured to the files. “It’s okay
if I leave these out? Since I’m coming right back?”

“Sure.”

Once we were out in the entryway, he punched the button for the elevator, and I booked
it up the stairs.

I thought about snagging a microwave sandwich at the grocery store, but fresh air
would help clear the sad facts from my mind. I drove a couple miles out of town to
the casino. I’d heard the tribal cops talking about the lunch specials, and now I
had an hour to kill.

I’d been in this casino once before and had ended up tangling with a
pickpocket. Glad to see they’d improved security measures since my last visit.

The same kid still worked at the front of the restaurant at the host stand. He grinned.
“Hey! I remember you. You’re with the FBI.”

“I remember
you.
You said the tribal president was your uncle. But I didn’t catch your name.”

He held out his hand. “Hadley DeYoung.”

I shook it. “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson.”

“Table for one, Agent Gunderson?”

“Yes.”

“This way.”

After I’d ordered an Indian taco salad made with ground buffalo, I glanced around
the space. The decor was typically Native American themed. The acoustics were such
that I could still hear the
ding ding
of electronic gambling machines even in this enclosed area. There weren’t too many
people eating lunch. I’d bet with the nightly steak and crab special the restaurant
did the bulk of their business at dinnertime.

Hadley stopped at the end of the table. “You out catching bad guys?”

“Nope. Just on my lunch break.” I leaned back in the booth. “So Hadley, how are you
related to tribal president Elk Thunder?”

“My mom was his sister.”

“Ah. You weren’t related to Arlette Shooting Star?”

“Nope.”

“Did you know her?”

He looked down at his hands. “Not really. She hadn’t been here very long.”

“You didn’t see Arlette on holidays or at family get-togethers?”

“What family get-togethers?” he scoffed. “My uncle doesn’t have nothin’ to do with
our family anymore. It’s all about Triscell’s family. Since they’ve got money and
stuff.” He smirked. “But I sure like telling people he’s my uncle. Makes ’em look
at me differently. Know what I mean?”

I nodded. “My dad was sheriff when I was your age. But that backfired on me. Most
people thought I’d tattle on them to the law.”

He laughed, and it reminded me of Levi.

“Can I ask you kind of a strange question?” He nodded. “Did it bug you that Arlette
got to live with your uncle and you didn’t?”

He thought about it for a few seconds. “Maybe a little. After my mom died, my dad
got married again, and then he died a few years later, so I lived with my stepmom
until she kicked me out. Never crossed my uncle’s mind to give me a place to crash,
even for a little while.” He shrugged tightly. “But in some ways, I felt sorry for
Arlette. ’Cause I know Uncle didn’t want her living there any more than he wanted
me.”

Hadley had just confirmed Naomi’s observation about the tribal president’s attitude
about his wife’s niece. “Did you guys know each other at school?”

He shook his head. “I dropped out when I was sixteen. Needed to get a job. Been working
here since it opened.” He talked about his responsibilities until my food arrived,
then left me alone to eat.

The food wasn’t bad, and the portions were huge. After I ate, I still had twenty minutes
before I could return to the gloomy basement, so I opted to wander through the casino.

Not many gamblers were trying their luck at the one-armed progressive jackpot win
today. I wandered to the blackjack tables. Only one table had players. And one of
those players happened to be Devlin Pretty Horses.

Just my bad luck I’d seen him two days in a row. Was there truth to Rollie’s comment
about Devlin owing money all over town? Surely the casino wouldn’t advance him a loan?

I watched from behind a video poker machine as the trio at the table played several
hands. Devlin’s pile of chips was mighty small. It amazed me how fast the games went
and how quickly chips vanished.

Devlin said something to the dealer. The dealer shook his head. An angry Devlin leaned
closer, smacking his hands on the table to get the dealer’s attention.

The dealer signaled to security.

Immediately, a strapping guard came over and escorted Devlin out of the building.

Interesting.

I watched the dealer talking to a guy I assumed was the casino floor manager. The
suit-and-tie wearing guy nodded a lot at whatever the dealer said. After five minutes,
I wandered outside and saw Devlin on his cell phone.

The instant he noticed me approaching him, he ended the call.

“Hey, Devlin, I thought that was you.”

“Mercy, whatcha doin’ out here? This ain’t your normal hangout.”

You would know.
“I’m working at tribal headquarters this week, so I came out for lunch. What are
you doing here?”

“The same. I’m about to have lunch with a buddy. He’s running late. I’m just waiting
out here for him.”

Liar. “Have a nice lunch. The taco salad is good.”

“Thanks. See ya.”

As I drove back into town, I wondered who I could ask to get the truth about Devlin’s
gambling problem. Rollie? No. He kept secrets better than anyone I knew.

Maybe Penny. She’d seemed more than a little exasperated with her brother last night.
I could swing by Sophie’s house tomorrow on my lunch hour when Sophie wouldn’t be
there. I hated to go behind Sophie’s back, but these family issues were taking a toll
on her, and I couldn’t stand to see her hurting.

I parked in the tribal headquarters lot. Although the lunch break had done me good,
it was almost worse now, knowing I’d have to go back inside.

•   •   •

Wednesday was more of the same in the archives department. Sheldon and I chatted and
had a cup of coffee before I locked myself in the newspaper archive section.

At Quantico we’d learned how to load the film into the microfiche machine. The damn
movies made it look so easy, when in actuality, it sucked.

Sheldon refreshed my memory on the process before I selected a roll.
Then I began the arduous process of separating out articles specifically regarding
women, looking for any information on car accidents, suspicious deaths, missing persons,
reports of suicide, and fund-raisers—which were usually for a health-related issue.

Residents of the Eagle River Reservation had a high mortality rate. This wasn’t one
of those situations where a prescription for Lopressor or adding more fiber to a diet
would change those stats.

I focused on young women between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five. In a one-year
span, forty women died, which didn’t seem significant until I reminded myself the
entire population of Eagle River was ten thousand residents. And I was looking at
only a twenty-year age span for victims. The only age group that had it worse than
women of that age group? Babies.

I’d been damn glad to go home, because this assignment really was beginning to feel
like punishment.

So yeah, I’d dragged ass, getting to tribal HQ on Thursday morning. Lex hadn’t been
thrilled I’d been tasked with car-pool duty again. Especially since Mason had had
to work late the last two nights, which left me to ask Lex if he had his homework
done.

I stopped by Sophie’s house to talk to Penny. I half expected Devlin would answer
my knock, but no one came to the door. I gave up in case Penny was resting and told
myself not to get pissy when I noticed John-John’s El Dorado was parked across the
street.

Instead of going directly to the archives, I stopped in at the tribal PD. While Fergie
didn’t have any news on the case—not that she’d tell
me
anyway, since Turnbull was in charge—she told me a funny story about her most recent
night in a patrol car. I realized since I’d joined the FBI, Dawson no longer shared
stuff like that with me.

It was almost nine thirty when I hit the call button to be let into the archives department.
Five minutes passed with no response. But every minute I wasn’t in that room looking
at sobering statistics was a happy minute. Still, I hit the call button again.

Sheldon finally answered and seemed annoyed to see me.

“Morning, Sheldon. I know I’m a little late—”