Dance of the Bones

But Beautiful Girl was always working or out in the desert gathering plants, so Big Man could not see her very often.

THE LIGHTS WERE OFF AND Diana was sleeping when Brandon tiptoed into the bedroom. Bozo was already sacked out and snoring on his bed in the corner. Of the three, Brandon was the only one who still couldn’t sleep. With his mind caught up in the case, he tossed and turned, wrestling his covers, battling his pillow, and once again reliving that long--ago crime scene.

Since Brandon had been the first officer summoned to the crime scene, that meant the homicide investigation was assigned to him from the start. At Sheriff DuShane’s insistence, Brandon worked the case solo. He understood from the outset that this wasn’t a favor. The Amos Warren investigation started out as a ten--year--old case. No doubt DuShane assumed that the homicide would never be solved. By assigning the case to Brandon, the sheriff could be sure that it would count against Brandon’s closure rates and no one else’s.

DuShane’s automatic expectation of failure made Brandon all the more determined to succeed. Knowing that the best he could hope for would be to build a circumstantial case, he went looking into Amos Warren’s circumstances.

Over time the victim’s history came into focus. He was an ex--con who had gone to prison for killing someone in a bar fight on the night of his twenty--first birthday. After serving his time and being released, he’d been a loner, earning a somewhat sketchy living doing some kind of prospecting rather than having a regular job. Somewhere along the way, he had taken in a young kid from the neighborhood, a neglected boy named John Lassiter.

Since Brandon knew John Lassiter was the one who had filed the missing persons report after Amos Warren disappeared, that’s where Brandon started his investigation. Their first meeting went about as well as could be expected.

According to county records, John Lassiter lived in a house on Lee Street in Tucson, a few houses east of Park. It was a modest place, two bedrooms or so, with a screened--in front porch. Because of the neighborhood’s proximity to the University of Arizona campus, most of the other houses served as student rentals, but this one seemed to be an exception to that rule. The bearded, burly man who opened the door looked too old and shopworn to be a college student. Brandon estimated the guy was six--foot--six if he was an inch. Already, at nine o’clock in the morning, there was a distinct odor of beer on his breath.

“John Lassiter?” Brandon asked, pulling out his ID.

“That’s who I am. Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Brandon Walker with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. May I come in?”

Rather than opening the door, Lassiter stepped outside onto a concrete walkway, pulling the door shut behind him. Folding his arms tightly across his chest, he stood there surly and glowering. “What’s this all about?” he demanded.

“It’s about a friend of yours—-Amos Warren.”

“Friend?” he snorted back. “Some friend. What about him?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead,” Brandon answered. “His recently identified remains were found some time ago on the far side of the Rincons. We’ve been unable to locate any next of kin. Since you were the one who filed the missing persons report, I thought you might be able to offer us some direction about a next of kin.”

Brandon watched Lassiter’s face as he delivered the bad news. The two men had once been friends. There was a pause, but no visible reaction crossed Lassiter’s face when he heard the news.

“Good riddance then,” John said at last. “And he didn’t have any next of kin—-no wife, no kids, no nothing. So what happened to him?”

“I’m not at liberty to say at this time. What I can tell you is that Mr. Warren’s death is being investigated as a possible homicide.”