Dance of the Bones

“It’s a crime scene,” Lani said, “but it’s not my call.”


The next several vehicles arrived in a caravan. Out in front was a black Suburban that screamed FBI and was FBI. Two agents, one male and one female, emerged from that car and came forward, credentials in hand, to introduce themselves—-Agents Angelica Howell and Joseph Armstrong. Behind them was a van belonging to the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office. Next came a van with a Pima County Sheriff’s Department logo on the door and a four--man CSI team inside. At the very end of the line was a sedan belonging to Law and Order, the Tohono O’odham tribal police.

Henry reappeared, motioned for the others to follow, and then led the group of investigators off toward the charco. Leo and Lani stayed where they were.

“Are they going to want to question Gabe?” Leo asked.

“Probably,” Lani answered. “He left long enough before it happened that I doubt he saw or heard anything, but they’ll probably want to check to be sure.”

“How long is this going to take?”

Lani sighed. “Probably a long time,” she said resignedly. “I don’t think either one of us is going to make it home in time for lunch.”

Leo nodded. “I’d better call the garage and let them know that I won’t be in until later.”

WHEN BRANDON CALLED THE NUMBER Junior had given him, Amanda Wasser was home and answered the phone.

Her response when he introduced himself surprised him. “Brandon Walker,” she said. “I believe I recognize the name. Aren’t you the original arresting officer, the one who took my father into custody?”

“Yes,” Brandon admitted. “That was me.”

“So what can I do for you, Mr. Walker?”

“John Lassiter reached out to me through his attorney, Oliver Glassman Junior. I volunteer with an organization called TLC, The Last Chance. We follow up on cold cases. Your father claims he wants TLC to look into Amos Warren’s death, and he asked for me in particular.”

Brandon more than half expected Amanda would hang up on him. “Thank God,” she whispered into the phone. “Finally.”

“What do you mean finally?”

“JFA was happy to go after the prosecutorial misconduct angle, but I don’t think any of them ever really believed my father was innocent. Of course, with him in prison, no one in law enforcement is interested in revisiting the case, either. Where are you? I mean, are you here in town?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you stop by?”

Without waiting for a second invitation, Brandon drove straight there. The entrance to the development, not exactly a gated community, was half a mile beyond Wilmot on Speedway. Brandon understood enough about golf to know that courses are supposed to be green. That wasn’t true here. The greens themselves were green, but that was all. Brandon knew that the cost of water had done in more than one Tucson area golf course, but the crazed golf--cart--driving players on this one didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the conditions on the course.

When he reached the address, he found a single--level unit whose front yard had been turned into a bricked patio surrounded by gaily colored pots on metal stands. Each pot overflowed with a bouquet of colorfully blooming flowers. Amanda Wasser, seated on a bright red scooter, was parked beside one of them. Wearing a sun hat and gardening gloves, she was busily deadheading flowers.

“You must be Brandon Walker,” she said with a smile as she stripped off her gloves and held out a hand. “Welcome to my raised garden. Ordinary raised beds don’t work for me anymore. I need something higher that gives me access both front and back. When I’m feeling well enough, I like to work the pots myself. When I’m not well enough, I have a yardman. Won’t you have a seat? Would you care for coffee?”