Falcon's Run. Aimee Thurlo
wearing gloves to avoid fingerprint contamination, studied the vic’s possessions. There was a small notepad with feeding schedules, a ranch staff ID and a wallet with five bucks but no driver’s license. Because there was no metro bus service and only one cab company around, it was unusual for locals not to have a license. He’d ask Abby about it.
As he walked back, Preston glanced over at the parking area and saw that the ranch’s staff was starting to arrive. They all wore dark blue T-shirts with a special logo. Yet the animal handler was wearing a plaid shirt.
The door to Abby’s office was partially open, and as he approached he felt a touch of cool air coming from inside. Preston stepped into the room, and Abby, who’d been sitting on the sofa next to the Navajo boy, came to meet him.
Now that he finally had a chance to take a closer, leisurely look at her, he realized that Abby Langdon was a stunner, with shoulder-length honey-brown hair and big hazel eyes. The loose clothing she wore didn’t hide the fact that she had curves in all the right places.
“Did you figure out what happened?” Abby asked.
He shook his head. “It’s much too soon for that, but I’ve got some more questions for you.” Even as he spoke, he saw her expression turn from hopeful to disappointed. He softened his tone. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, but these things take time. All I can tell you is that it wasn’t an accident.”
The color drained from her face. “This couldn’t have had anything to do with our ranch. It has to be random…craziness.”
“What do you know about the deceased?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “You think Carl provoked this somehow? But that just can’t be. He was a gentle man. He caught spiders and relocated rather than killed them.”
“Relax. I’m just gathering information,” he said.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Sorry.”
He saw her lips tremble but she quickly brought herself under control and turned her head to smile at Bobby.
Preston liked her. It was a purely instinctive reaction, but he trusted his gut. Just past those beautiful hazel eyes and that shaky smile beat the heart of a warrior. Yet hers was a gentle toughness.
The boy rose to his feet and came over. “I’m Bobby Neskahi,” he said. Honoring Navajo ways, he didn’t offer to shake hands. “I knew…him,” he said, avoiding the name of the deceased, also according to Navajo custom. “Probably better than almost anyone,” he added.
Preston wondered if the kid had been raised a traditionalist or was simply showing him the proper cultural respect.
“I’m Diné,” Bobby said.
“We both are,” Preston said, trying not to smile. Diné meant The People and signified those of the Navajo tribe.
Bobby moved back to the couch, and as he walked, Preston realized that the kid was no stranger to pain.
“Can we talk alone—Navajo to Navajo?” Bobby asked.
“Of course,” Preston said, then looked at Abby.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said, giving Preston a wary look.
“We’ll keep it informal, not official.” At her hesitation, he met her gaze. Looking someone in the eye was considered rude inside the Navajo Nation, but he’d learned over the years that those outside the tribe found it a sign of honesty, not disrespect. Though it hadn’t come naturally to him, over time he’d adapted to the custom.
“Okay, but I’m staying right outside.”
As Abby left, Preston sat down on the couch and gestured with a nod for Bobby to do the same. “Abby told me that you were the one who found the body this morning,” Preston said.
He nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah, but I stuck to the rule of three.”
“I know,” Preston said. “So tell me, Bobby, how well did you know the ranch’s animal trainer?”
“Do you want me to avoid using his name or not?” Bobby asked. “I wasn’t raised on the Rez but I don’t want you to think I don’t know any better.”
“It’s safe to use his name. I’m a police officer, so I’m a modernist.”
“Mrs. Nez has been teaching me about our ways. She says modernists are like apples—red on the outside and white on the inside.”
Preston laughed. It was an old saying, and he had a feeling Bobby was testing him. “I’ve heard it all, kid.” He gazed into Bobby’s hard brown eyes and for a moment saw a glimpse of himself at that age. He’d been so afraid to show vulnerability. The world was seldom kind to those perceived as weak. That was a lesson he’d learned in foster care quickly enough, and he had a feeling it was even more so for Bobby.
“Abby’s trying to be brave, but on the inside she’s scared. This isn’t her fault, so you need to fix it.”
“Fix it how?”
“Catch the bad guy before she freaks out. I can help. Carl and I were buds.”
“Okay. Let’s start at the beginning. First of all, what were you doing here so early in the morning?” Preston asked.
“I always come in super early because my foster father—Mr. Jack is what we call him—drops me off on his way to work. He has his own janitorial company, and some of the places he cleans want everything done before they open for business.”
“Okay, that answers that. So what do you usually do when you get here?”
“I say hi to Abby, then go help Carl feed the animals. He starts work even earlier than my foster dad.”
“Tell me what you saw this morning,” Preston pressed.
“I was going past the pens when I saw him just lying there on the ground. I saw the blood on his clothes and got scared so I went to get Abby.” He paused, then looked up at Preston. “The horses weren’t anywhere near him.”
“Tell me more about Carl,” Preston said.
“Carl was really old, like sixty. What I liked most about him was that he treated me just like he did everyone else,” Bobby said, then looked away and wiped a tear from his face with a swipe of his hands. “He never gave me that ‘poor kid’ look. To him I was just me.” He stared at his right leg, which was encased in a brace.
Bobby became quiet and Preston didn’t interrupt the silence.
“Carl didn’t have a lot of friends, kinda like me at the foster home.” Bobby looked up at Preston and met his gaze. “He talked to the rest of the staff and all, but they weren’t really his friends. He only had one other friend besides me and Abby. Rod Garner, Lightning Rod, who used to be in the NBA. Carl liked going over there and playing one-on-one with Lightning. Mr. Garner’s got a huge basketball court—six goals. I’ve never been there, but Carl told me about it.”
Preston nodded, beginning to understand Bobby more. “So what else did you two talk about?”
“Stuff,” he said with a shrug. “We were always solving puzzles and riddles like real spies, you know? That was fun. Carl liked games where you had to use your head, not your thumbs, and hated games where you had to trust your luck.”
“You mean like gambling?”
“Yeah, like that. I tried to give him a buck once so he’d buy me a scratcher, but he wouldn’t do it. I said I’d split the money if I won, but he still said no. Told me gambling was like throwing your money away and I was too smart to fall for stuff like that.”
“He was telling you the truth. The odds always favor the game, not the gambler. Lottery, scratchers, casinos—they’re all the same except for the odds.”
“Don’t