Naked Edge (16 page)

When she'd stood at the scene, she'd been certain Grandpa Red Crow had been murdered. Why she'd felt so sure of that she couldn't say. She of all people knew how quickly the unexpected could happen. Maybe he'd gotten too close to the edge and had slipped or been blown off by a sudden gust of wind. But there was no way he'd stood atop that sacred place, drunk himself into a stupor, and fallen.

She'd bet her life on it.

Of course, that wouldn't matter if she couldn't prove it. She needed facts--the rock-solid kind that she could put into a news article, the kind that would refute the other news reports and set the record straight. There was so much more at stake here than Nell Parker or the other newspapers or even her I-Team friends understood.

Grandpa Red Crow had been the keystone for Denver's Native community. He'd given so many Native people hope, brought so many back from the brink of despair, giving them something to believe in, someone they could look up to. To lose him was bad enough. To lose him in a way that dishonored everything he'd claimed to believe, everything he'd taught them, everything he'd represented ...

Kat didn't have to imagine the loss of heart and hope this would cause, because she felt it herself. She'd already gotten a call from Uncle Allen, who seemed as stunned as she by the news and who'd been flooded with calls from people seeking answers and reassurance that he desperately wanted to give them.

She could not let those news reports stand.

Tom had given her the rest of the week to look into Grandpa Red Crow's death, but he'd been clear that he had misgivings about it. He'd called her into his office, shut the door, and laid it on the line.

"Is there any chance this could be true?"

His question had hit like a fist to the stomach. "No! Of course not!"

"No chance at all?"

Even as her mind had objected again, the journalist inside her had taken over, and she'd found herself weighing the possibility. Grandpa Red Crow had once had an alcohol problem, but that had been long ago when he'd been young and angry. He'd been sober for decades, working hard to help others stop drinking. She remembered seeing the empty whisky bottle on top the butte. Was it possible that he'd relapsed and had hidden his problem from them? As someone who knew Grandpa Red Crow well, someone who loved him, she had to say no. But as a journalist ...

She'd met Tom's gaze, hoping Grandpa Red Crow would forgive her for what she had to say. "I can't imagine it, but nothing is impossible."

Tom had nodded, and she'd seen the approval in his eyes. "Don't let your emotions cloud your journalistic judgment. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, get a hold of the autopsy report."

So Kat had driven to Boulder and stopped by the coroner's office to pick up a copy of the report, her mind still on the three lines of redacted text in the police file. What was so important that the police were keeping it from the public? Had there been something at the scene that night, something she ought to have noticed? She'd been so upset at the time that the details were hazy.

But, though she couldn't remember, she knew who would.

As soon as she had finished here, she would call Gabe and ask for his help.

A middle-aged man in an expensive gray suit stepped into the lobby, a scowl on his narrow face, his thinning brown hair out of place as if he'd been running. "Are you Ms. James?"

"Yes." Kat stood. "Mr. Martin?"

"I'm Ira Feinman, the city attorney. I understand you arrived without an appointment and have refused to leave even though you've been informed that Mr. Martin is unavailable today. Is that correct?"

Kat met Feinman's cold gaze. "The city has had ample time to fill the open-records request I filed last Monday. If you can't turn the documents over to me now, I'll be happy to wait until I can speak directly to Mr. Martin about the problem."

"The city has already filed a formal request for ten additional days with your newspaper's counsel. That's ten working days, which means we don't need to turn these documents over to you until the Monday after Thanksgiving." He handed her a document dated today, one he'd probably typed up and faxed five minutes ago. "As you've already been told, Mr. Martin is not available today. If you refuse to leave, you'll give me no choice but to call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."

Kat stood her ground. "Mr. Feinman, this is a public office. You can call the police if you want, but you and I both know the charge won't stick. In the end, you'll still have to give me the documents, and you'll be facing a lawsuit from the paper--as well as a lot of negative press."

Feinman opened his mouth to speak again, blotches of red appearing on his cheeks, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the appearance of another man. Tall with salt-and-pepper hair, he wore navy blue slacks and a blue-and-white-striped Oxford shirt with a black tie, gold wire-rimmed glasses framing warm brown eyes. "That won't be necessary, Ira. I've got a few minutes before my next meeting, Ms. James. Let's go back to my office."

Mr. Martin's office was bright and airy with a view of the Pearl Street Mall below. Photos of him shaking hands with various politicians hung in frames along the walls, marking him as a man who took his career seriously and perhaps had political aspirations of his own. He motioned her toward a plush leather sofa, then sat beside her, Mr. Feinman settling in a matching chair across from them. "How can I help you today?"

"I've come for the documents I requested a week ago or a truthful explanation as to why I don't have them yet."

He nodded. "As I believe I overheard Ira telling you, we're asking for another ten days to fill that request."

"Yes, I just saw the letter, which was written and faxed today." She wanted to let them know that she'd noticed-and that she didn't buy it. "What I don't understand is why it's taking so long to get the documents together. Surely, it would take staff only a matter of hours to find the files and photocopy them."

Mr. Feinman butted in. "The city is perfectly within its legal rights to--"

Mr. Martin held up a hand. "Ira, there's no need to be confrontational about this. Ms. James, the problem we're facing is that you requested
all
documents pertaining to Mesa Butte, and we're trying very hard to meet your demands. We have files spread out across the city--in the real estate department, with Mountain Parks, with the police department, here in my office, with the surveyor's office--and it's taking us a bit of time to coordinate with everyone to gather those files and eliminate the duplicate documents. If you want to narrow the scope of your request, things might move more quickly."

Kat weighed what he'd told her, still skeptical that it could take more than two weeks for the city's staff to get the job done. "You do know, don't you, Mr. Martin, that it's against the law for the city to use these additional days to sort through those files in an effort to hide information?"

Feinman glared at her. "Are you making accusations, Ms. James?"

"If I were in Ms. James position, I'd probably be thinking the exact same thing, Ira." Martin gave Kat a lopsided grin. "And call me Paul. Yes, I'm aware of the law, Ms. James. We're just trying to be thorough."

Then Martin launched into a long explanation about how the city needed to invest in a citywide computerized records system, rather than relying so heavily on paper, which was not only less environmentally friendly but also less efficient. By the time he finished, much more than a few minutes had passed.

"We're late for our next meeting." Feinman stood and left the room.

"Story of my life. I'm late for everything." Martin rose, looking over his shoulder toward his open office door. Then he leaned closer to Kat and whispered. "Remember what Shakespeare said about first killing all the lawyers? He was right!"

With a wink, he led Kat out of his office.

GABE TOSSED BACK the rest of his whisky, savoring its heat. Yes, it was three in the afternoon, and he was drunk--fall-down, shit-faced, legless drunk. But not so drunk that he didn't notice the sexy brunette checking him out. She sat at a table off the end of the bar, sipping her wine, her gaze fixed on him. She was sending all the signals, giving him flirty smiles, licking her lower lip, stroking the stem of her wine-glass with her fingertips. All he had to do to get inside her was walk over and say hello.

He should do it. Hell, yeah, he should. He should get off this bar stool and walk right over to her and say something romantic like, "Let's fuck." He could use a good orgasm a lot more than another shot.

So why was he still sitting here?

The answer had beautiful hazel green eyes, long dark hair, soft curves--and a frustratingly intact hymen.

Kat.

She'd come into his life, and now nothing made sense, most especially whatever was going on inside his head. He'd had it together before she'd come along, had his life just the way he'd wanted it, but now she was making him question everything. She was even affecting his ability to climb. And still he wanted her, wanted her in a way he hadn't wanted a woman since ...

Well, that was too damn bad, really, because she didn't want him. She'd made that clear. No, that wasn't what she'd said. She wanted him, but she just wanted other things too, things he couldn't give her--rings, vows, happily ever after.

Last night, I ... I wanted you so badly that, if you hadn't stopped, I'm not sure what would have happened.

At the echo of her voice, his cock--the same cock that ignored the brunette--began to get hard. He almost groaned aloud, aggravation and sexual frustration forming a volatile mixture with the scotch in his gut. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he gone insane? Why had he let himself get tangled up in a woman who was never going to sleep with him? That's right--Kat was never going to sleep with him.

Hear that, dick?

His dick got harder, clearly not buying it.

And then the absurdity of the situation struck him.

Man, you're a fucking mess--on the brink of losing your job, drunk in a bar in the afternoon, having a silent conversation with your own stiff cock.

Well, he supposed that was better than talking out loud to some other guy's wood.

Shit, yeah, he was drunk.

He forced himself to check out the brunette, tried to imagine undressing her, kissing her tits, burying his hard-on inside her--and felt a whole lot of nothing.

So you slept with her, but she doesn't mean anything to you?

It was true. The brunette meant nothing to him. Neither had Sam--or any of these random women he'd had sex with since Jill's death. As long as he was inside them, they filled the emptiness in his life. And then they became part of the emptiness. It didn't make one damned bit of sense, but it was true.

And suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to talk her--to Kat. He needed to hear her voice, needed to tell her...

He handed the bartender a fifty, took her business card out of his wallet, then fished in his pocket for his cell phone--only to discover that it was already in his hand. Then, ignoring the little voice in his head that warned him against drunk-dialing her, he punched in her number.

CHAPTER 10

KAT PARKED HER truck on the street in front of Gabe's house, then dug the police report out of her briefcase. Dropping her keys in her coat pocket, she stepped out into the cold wind and headed up the walkway toward his front door, trying not to notice the nervous flutter in her stomach. A part of her was excited to see him again, but a part of her wished she could climb back in her truck and drive away.

I wanted you so badly that, if you hadn't stopped, I'm not sure what would have happened.

She cringed inwardly at the memory of her own words, feeling exposed in a way she'd never felt before. But her feelings really didn't matter. Her people were depending on her. Grandpa Red Crow was depending on her.

She climbed Gabe's front steps, rang the doorbell, and waited.

And waited.

Disappointed that he wasn't home, she headed back down the walk to her truck, planning to call and leave him a message when she got back to the office. She unlocked the door, climbed into the cab, and was about to drive off when her cell phone rang. She dug her phone out of her purse and saw that the call was coming from a pay phone. Hoping Pauline's mother hadn't kicked her out of the house again, she answered. "Katherine James."

But the voice she heard was not Pauline's. It didn't even sound human.

Cold and mechanical, it sang in her ear. "Ten little, nine little, eight little Indians/Seven little, six little, five little Indians/Four little, three little, two little Indians/One little Indian ...
dead."

The last word lingered in a long, drawn-out exhalation that made Kat's pulse spike and the hair on her nape rise. Then there was silence.

"Who is this? Who's calling?"

But the caller had already hung up.

Kat drew the phone away from her ear and stared at it, stunned. Like any reporter worth his or her salt, she'd gotten death threats before, but there was something about this call, something malevolent ...

One Indian
was
dead. Grandpa Red Crow.