“I’m the tribe’s liaison until the tribal detective returns from a case in Peridot.”
“Lucky you.”
Her look speared Alex. “Yeah. Lucky me.”
Over the next few hours, the early morning sunshine topped the ridge and blazed high in the turquoise sky. As team leader, he directed the exhumation and designated crime scene responsibilities. Photographer. Evidence Recovery. Evidence Recorder.
Surveying the scene, he prepared a narrative description of the crime scene and instructed others on the crew to cordon off the perimeter. He set Charles to sweeping the immediate area—just in case—with ground-penetrating radar. Sidd sketched and photologged the canyon.
With painstaking precision, Emily dug out one body part at a time, freeing the cadaver from the confines of the grave. Shifting the soil to a ground cloth and sifting the particles through a wire screen, she documented her findings in a running commentary on her digital recorder.
As more of the victim surfaced, Darlene took photographs to document the body in situ. Using her pick and shovel, Emily found the outer edges of the body. Only scraps of denim encircled the victim’s legs. The remnant of a tattered blouse covered the torso.
Finally at her signal, Alex, Charles, and Sidd hunched over the pit and helped Emily remove the body to an adjacent body bag. With the corpse flipped onto its spine, Emily did a cursory check of the remains.
“Hypodontia.”
“English, Em.”
“Missing teeth.” Emily feathered sand off the jawbone with her brush. “Shoveled enamel on the incisors. Ridge on the edge of the teeth. Native American ancestry probably. But physiology in a melting pot nation can be deceptive and unreliable.”
“Makes sense.” Alex glanced around. “Considering where we are. But for the record, they prefer American Indian. Better yet, their own tribal affiliation.”
Strawberry-blonde Darlene looked at him sharply. “What makes you such an expert?”
Alex nudged his chin in the direction of the evidence tent. “Her.”
Her elbows clamped to her side, Pilar lingered out of the way, yet close enough to answer the team’s questions. Although Pilar had never been a traditional Apache with their deep-seated aversion to the dead, she didn’t get any closer than necessary. Probably not taking any chances.
Emily gestured to the long forearm bone. “Growth caps fusing to the end of the ulna.”
Alex growled at his Midwestern forensic specialist.
Her lips curved. “Means she’s young. Late teens?” She pointed the end of her pick at the exposed white bones of the pelvis. “Large sciatic notch. Definitely female.”
No scraps of fabric there.
“Sexually assaulted?”
“Like the others. Probably her, too.” Emily’s mouth thinned. “When I get to the lab, I can determine more fully.”
“Cause of death?”
She sighed. “There’s a slash that cut to the bone. I’m guessing her throat was cut from ear to ear. And from the marks, a knife blade. Long. Serrated. Like a hunting knife.”
He caught her eye. “Did you find the mark on her? His calling card?”
With the tip of her gloved finger, Emily brushed aside a portion of the mauve blouse. “Like the other girls. Carved so deep he hit bone.”
He fought the bile rising in his throat at the savagery and cruelty. “Premortem?”
Emily nodded and bent over the desecrated body.
Alex’s eyes strayed to Pilar, the most perplexing, confounding woman he’d ever known. Her eyes, the blackest he’d ever seen, searched the terrain. For what he didn’t know. Looking everywhere, anywhere but at him.
He couldn’t keep his gaze off her, however. With a strange mixture of joy and pain, he beheld Pilar once more, the flowing black hair bound in a tight bun per police regulations.
But instead of the vivacity he remembered, this Pilar wore a brooding expression. Something—grief, bitterness, rage—had worn grooves around her mouth. Put there by someone. His stomach clenched. Someone like him.
Underneath the bulk of her patrol jacket, she was as fit as ever. Slim and petite in stature. He’d towered over her then and now.
But from the set of her jaw, probably as tough as ever. The toughest girl in school. Who ran, played, fought as hard as any boy—himself included.
And because he couldn’t help himself, Alex gradually drifted closer to the tent until he found himself next to Pilar. She bristled at his proximity but kept her eyes trained on the desert horizon.
“Pilar . . . I need to talk to you later . . .” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I want to apologize for what happened . . . to explain . . . to—”
“No apology’s going to change what happened, Torres. What’s done is done. You and I got nothing to say to each other.”
Guilt surged anew. No surprise she hated him. He hated himself for what had happened.
“We’ve got nothing to talk about except the case. Let’s try to do our jobs and keep this professional.” She cleared her throat. “How long has the victim been dead? Any ID on the body?”
The contralto huskiness of her voice did funny things to his nerve endings.
His heart hammered. He wasn’t sure he could be this close to her and live with that. He’d hoped maybe—
Alex swallowed. He was a fool. “Em—”
Pilar shot him a look out of the corner of her eye.
“Dr. Waters says at least a year.” Alex strove to match her detachment. “No ID. We’ll need to look through the tribe’s Missing Person register. But you were right. The vic is female.”
“Apache?”
He shrugged. “The teeth indicate Indian. Apache, Navajo. Puebloan, or Tohono O’odham. This is, after all, Arizona. Prelim will require DNA confirmation.”
“But she was found on San Carlos land.”
“The probability is strong she’s Apache,” he conceded. “And a teenager. You got any missing San Carlos girls?”
Pilar stiffened. “Too many, Torres.” The radio on her shoulder crackled. She stepped away to answer the call.
She moved toward her parked cruiser. “Gotta go.”
“Wait.”
He caught her arm and she reared.
Stupid.
He withdrew his hand. He knew better. Pilar of all people didn’t like to be touched, especially after . . . “Where’re you going? My team may have questions.”
She squared her shoulders. “Much as I enjoy watching you and your Anglo women do hard labor, there’s a domestic dispute in Bylas. I’m closest.”
He grimaced. “I’m not Anglo.”
“No, you just act like one.”
He ignored the jibe. “Domestic dispute? Those can be dangerous.”
She gave him a look that could’ve singed the wings off a butterfly. “No duh, Torres.”
But at her caustic tone, he relaxed. This Pilar he knew. The give-as-good-as-she-got Pilar.
“Need backup? Cause I can spare—”
“Don’t need federal help, much less yours, with a rez issue. You grew up here. You know the drill. Not enough manpower for the vastness of the territory. We make do.” Her lips flattened.