Dance of the Bones

“He evidently remembers you from back then.”


“Since I was the cop who put the cuffs on him originally, I suppose he does remember me. But why on earth would he want to talk to me?”

“He said he’d heard you were retired and were busy solving cold cases these days. He wants to talk to you about finding Amos Warren’s real killer.”

“Sort of like O.J., you mean?”

“More or less. Lassiter told Junior that just because the cops are calling the case closed doesn’t mean it’s solved!”

Across the room, Diana turned and beckoned to Brandon. “Oops,” he said. “Duty calls. We’d best get a move on.”

Ollie delayed him for a moment by reaching into the pocket of his suit coat and pulling out a business card. “It’s Junior’s,” he explained. “If you do decide to look into this, I’d appreciate your keeping him in the loop.”

Reluctantly, Brandon took the card, slipped it into his own pocket, and then made his way toward the bookstore entrance and up the stairway to the ballroom. Using the table number on his name badge, he found where he was supposed to be. Matilda Glassman was already on hand directing traffic and motioning -people into preselected seats. The arrangement left Brandon on the far side of the table from his wife, who was seated next to Ollie, while Brandon was sandwiched between a philosophy professor and the wife of a banker who happened to be a major donor.

The philosophy professor offered Brandon a tepid handshake and turned her attention to the person seated on her left. The banker’s wife, clearly out of her element, attacked her salad with a total focus that told Brandon she was beyond shy. He suspected that she, too, would have been far more comfortable seated next to her spouse rather than across the table from him. After a few abortive attempts to engage the woman in conversation, Brandon gave up. Instead, he settled into his own food, all the while keeping track of what was going on across the table.

By then, Ollie, clearly into his cups and despite the daggers being sent his way by his wife, was talking a blue streak. At one point, Diana looked away from him and sent a questioning raised--eyebrow look in her husband’s direction. No doubt Glassman had just spilled the beans about Brandon Walker’s faux writing career. A moment later, when Diana smiled at him and gave him a slight nod, Brandon knew that she got the joke.

There was something about that shared smile—-a moment of silent connection in that crowded, noisy room—-that made Brandon’s heart sing. The look didn’t just cross the table; it bridged the years as well. He remembered the moment in 1975 when he’d first been smitten. He had met Diana years earlier in the course of a homicide case in which her first husband, Garrison Ladd, and Garrison’s mentor and former creative writing professor, Andrew Carlisle, had both been suspects. Ladd had supposedly committed suicide, while his co--conspirator had gone to prison.

Years later, Carlisle’s early release from prison had put Diana in jeopardy as Carlisle came after her, intent on wreaking vengeance on the woman who had helped send him away. At about the same time, Brandon and Diana had once more been thrown together when Diana’s six--year--old son, Davy, was injured in a car accident on the reservation. Brandon had been sent to notify Diana of the incident. Since the boy was an Anglo and couldn’t be treated by the Indian Health Ser-vice, Brandon had offered to drive Diana to Sells so she’d be able to look after the boy.