After that murmured apology, he put on his disposable gloves and loaded the bones into three separate cardboard evidence boxes. It was the best Dan Leggett could do.
He took the boxes back to the department and then lugged the surprisingly lightweight stack into the crime lab. "What's this?" the lab tech asked, opening the top box and peering inside.
"It's what's left of a body," he told her. "When you take them out of the box, I want every single one of them dusted for prints."
"Come on, Detective Leggett. Fingerprints?"
"I'm an old man who's about to retire," Dan Leggett told the thirty-something technician. "Humor me, just this once. And while you're at it, fax a dental photo over to that Bio-Metrics professor at the U. Who knows, we might just get a hit on his Missing Persons database."
As tribal chairman, Gabe Ortiz could easily have gone straight to the head of the line at the feast house in Little Tucson. But that wasn't Fat Crack's style. Instead, an hour or so before the Chicken Scratch Band was scheduled to play, he and Wanda were standing in line waiting to be admitted to the feast house along with their bass-guitar-playing son, Leo, and everyone else who was waiting to eat.
Gabe could remember a time, seemingly not that long ago, when all the guys in the band had been old men. Times had changed. The problem was, the members of the band had always stayed pretty much the same-middle-aged. That was still true. What was different was that Gabe Ortiz was well into his sixties and one of the band members was his unmarried, thirty-eight-year-old son.
They filed into the feast house and took seats at the tables. Moments later, Delia Cachora herself showed up carrying plates. She set two plates down in front of Gabe and Wanda and then went back for more.
Leo caught his father's eye. "When are you going to put in a good word for me with that new tribal attorney?" he asked.
"What do you want me to tell her?" Gabe asked. "That you're a good mechanic? You've never worked on a Saab in your life."
Leo laughed. "I could learn," he said.
Delia Chavez Cachora had returned to the reservation driving a shiny black Saab 9000. In the reservation world where Ford and Chevy pickups ruled supreme, Delia's car had created quite a stir-especially when word leaked out that the Saab's leather seats were actually heated. In the Arizona desert, heated seats were considered to be a laughably unnecessary option. After months of driving in gritty dust, its once shiny onyx exterior had acquired a perpetually matte-brown overlay.
"Why don't you talk to her yourself?" Wanda asked impatiently. "She won't bite."
"I knew her in first grade," Leo said. "But I don't think that counts."
Delia returned to the table with two more plates, one of which she put in front of Leo Ortiz.
"Delia," Gabe said, "this is my son, Leo. He says you were in first grade together. He wants you to know that he's a pretty good mechanic."
Leo Ortiz shrugged. "You never can tell when you might need a good mechanic," he said with a laugh. "Or a bass guitar player, either."
Delia Cachora studied Leo Ortiz's broad face as if searching for a resemblance between this graying, portly man and some child she had known in school thirty years earlier. "I'll bear that in mind," she said. Then she headed back to the serving line to collect more plates.
Wanda looked at her husband. "Are you going to talk to her?" Wanda asked.
Fat Crack nodded. "After," he said.
Wanda sighed, then she turned her attention on her son. "I don't know why you're so interested in her," she sniffed disapprovingly. "Julia Joaquin, her auntie, tells me Delia can't even make tortillas."
Leo caught his father's eye and winked. "Plenty of women can cook," Leo said, "but I'll bet Delia Cachora can do lots of other things."
Gabe Ortiz laughed at his son's gentle teasing, but it surprised him somewhat that Delia Cachora would turn out to be the kind of woman who would interest either one of his two sons, who, at thirty-eight and forty, respectively, were both thought to be aging, perpetual bachelors. If Leo did in fact find Delia attractive, by the time Gabe finished telling her about Davy Ladd's upcoming arrival, Leo's chances would be greatly reduced from what they were right then. Gabe had put the unpleasant task off for far too long already. It was time.
He waited until that group of feast-goers had finished eating. Then, on his way out, Gabe stopped by the dishwashing station where the tribal attorney stood over a steaming washtub of water with soapy dishwater all the way up to her elbows.
"Delia," Gabe said quietly. "I need to talk to you."
"Right now?"
"Whenever you have time," Gabe answered. "I'll wait outside."
Wanda walked over to the dance floor with Leo while Fat Crack lingered outside the door to the feast house. Several minutes later, Delia Cachora joined him.
"Is something wrong?" Delia asked anxiously. "You look worried."
Gabe was worried. The business with Andrew Carlisle had kept him awake for most of two successive nights now. His only regret was that his state of mind showed so clearly to outside observers.
Fat Crack shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with you," he said. "But there is something I need to talk to you about." He led her away from the feast house, through the lines of parked cars, through groups of people gathered informally around the backs of pickups, laughing and talking. When they reached the Crown Victoria, Fat Crack opened the door and motioned her inside.
"Whatever it is, it must be serious," Delia said.
"Not that serious. I wanted to talk to you about a friend of mine. A sort of cousin, actually. My aunt's godson. His name's David Ladd."
In the world of the Tohono O'othham- where even the most direct conversational route is never a straight line-this was a straightforward way of beginning.
"What about him?" Delia asked.
"I've offered him a job."
The car was silent for a moment. "David Ladd," Delia repeated at last. "That doesn't sound like a Tohono O'othham name."
"It isn't," Fat Crack admitted. "Davy is Mil-gahn. He was my aunt Rita's godson-a foster son, more or less."
"Why are you telling me about this?" Delia asked. "Is there some legal problem?"
Gabe Ortiz took a deep breath. "I've offered him an internship," he said. "In your office. He just graduated from law school at Northwestern. He'll be home sometime next week and able to start work the week after that. I've hired him as your special assistant while he's studying for the bar exam. As an intern, we won't have to pay him all that much, and I thought that while you're preoccupied by negotiations with the county, he'll be able to help out with some of the day-to-day stuff."
Delia's reaction was every bit as bad as Gabe Ortiz had expected. "Wait just a damn minute here!" she exclaimed, turning on Gabe with both eyes blazing. "Are you saying you've hired an Anglo to come work in my office without telling me and without even asking my opinion?"
"Pretty much."
"My understanding was that the tribal attorney always hires his or her own assistants," Delia said.
"The tribal attorney works for me," Gabe reminded her impassively. The fact that he was using his tribal council voice on her infuriated Delia Chavez Cachora even more.
"But you already told me, he's Mil-gahn," she objected. "An Anglo."
Gabe Ortiz remained unimpressed. "So? Are you prejudiced against Anglos, or what?"
At thirty-eight, having fought her way through years of prejudice in Eastern Seaboard parochial schools, Delia Cachora knew about racial prejudice firsthand. From the wrong end.
"What if I am?" she asked. "I'm sure there are plenty of Indian law school graduates we could hire while they're waiting to pass the bar exam. Besides, I can't hire anyone anyway. We talked about that a couple of months ago. I'm already over budget."
"I'm hiring Davy Ladd out of a special discretionary fund," Gabe said. "One that comes straight from my office. The money to pay him won't be coming out of your budget, it'll be coming out of mine."