Secrets in Four Corners

Secrets in Four Corners

Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Copyright

Chapter One

Sabrina Hunter fastened her utility belt around her hips. “Eat up, Peter, or we’re gonna be late.”

Peter Hunter peered up at his mom, a spoonful of Cheerios halfway to his mouth. “We’re always late.”

This was definitely nothing to brag about. “But,” his mother reminded him, “our New Year’s resolution was to make it a point not to be late anymore.” It was only January twelfth. Surely, they weren’t going to break their resolution already.

Chewing his cereal thoughtfully, Peter tilted his dark head and studied her again. “Truth or dare?”

Bree took a deep breath, reached for patience. “Eat. There’s no time for games.” She tucked her cell phone into her belt. Mondays were always difficult. Especially when Bree had worked the weekend and her son had spent most of that time with his aunt Tabitha. She spoiled the boy outrageously, as did her teenage daughter, Layla. Even so, Bree was glad to have her family support system when duty called, as it had this weekend. She grabbed her mug and downed the last of the coffee that had grown cold during her rush to prepare for the day.

Peter swallowed, then insisted, “Truth. Is my real daddy a jerk just like Big Jack?”

Bree choked. Coughed. She plopped her mug on the counter and stared at her son. “Where did you hear something like that?”

“Cousin Layla said so.” He nodded resolutely. “Aunt Tabitha told her to hush ’cause I might hear. Is it true? Is my real daddy a jerk?”

“You must’ve misunderstood, Peter.” Breathe. Bree moistened her lips and mentally scrambled for a way to change the subject. “Grab your coat and let’s get you to school.” Memories tumbled one over the other in her head. Memories she had sworn she would never allow back into her thoughts. That was her other New Year’s resolution. After eight years it was past time she’d put him out of her head and her heart once and for all.

What the hell was her niece thinking, bringing him up? Particularly with Peter anywhere in the vicinity. The kid loved playing hide and seek, loved sneaking up on his mother and aunt even more. His curious nature ensured he missed very little. Tabitha and Layla knew this!

Bree ordered herself to calm down.

“Nope. I didn’t misunderstand.” Peter pushed back his chair, carefully picked up his cereal bowl and headed for the sink. He rinsed the bowl and placed it just as carefully into the dishwasher. “I heard her.”

Bree’s pulse rate increased. “Layla was probably talking about…” Bree racked her brain for a name, someone they all knew—anyone besides him.

Before she could come up with a name or a logical explanation for her niece’s slip, Peter turned to his mother once more, his big blue eyes—the ones so much like his father’s and so unlike her brown ones—resolute. “Layla said my real daddy—”

“Okay, okay.” Bree held up her hands. “I got that part.” How on earth was she supposed to respond? “We can talk on the way to school.” Maybe that would at least buy her some time. And if she were really lucky Peter would get distracted and forget all about the subject of his father.

Something Bree herself would very much like to do.

She would be having a serious talk with her sister and niece.

Thankfully her son didn’t argue. He tugged on his coat and picked up his backpack. So far, so good. She might just get out of this one after all. Was that selfish of her? Was Peter the one being cheated by her decision to keep the past in the past? Including his father?

Bree pushed the questions aside and shouldered into the navy uniform jacket that sported the logo of the Towaoc Police Department. At the coat closet near her front door, she removed the lockbox from the top shelf, retrieved her service weapon and holstered it. After high school she’d gotten her associate’s degree in criminal justice. She hadn’t looked back since, spending a decade working in reservation law enforcement. The invitation to join the special homicide task force formed by the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the Ute Mountain Reservation tribal officials had been exactly the opportunity she had been looking for to further her career.

Besides her son and family, her career was primary in her life. Not merely because she was a single parent, either, although that was a compelling enough motive. She wanted to be a part of changing the reservation’s unofficial reputation as the murder capital of Colorado. This was her home. Making a difference was important to her. She wanted to do her part for her people.

Not to mention work kept her busy. Kept her head on straight and out of that past she did not want to think about, much less talk about. An idle mind was like idle hands, it got one into trouble more often than not.

Enough trouble had come Bree’s way the last few years.

No sooner had she slid behind the wheel of her SUV and closed the door had Peter demanded, “Truth, Mommy.” He snapped his safety belt into place.

So much for any hopes of him letting the subject go. Bree glanced over her shoulder to the backseat where her son waited. She could take the easy way out and say his aunt and cousin were right. His curiosity would be satisfied and that would be the end of that—for now anyway. But that would be a lie. There were a lot of things she could say about the man who’d fathered her child, but that he was bad or the kind of jerk her ex, Jack, had turned out to be definitely wasn’t one of them.

“Your father was never anything like Big Jack.” Even as she said the words, her heart stumbled traitorously.

“So he was a good guy?”

Another question that required a cautiously worded response. “A really good guy.”

“Like a superhero?”

Maybe that was a stretch. But her son was into comics lately. “I guess you could say that.” Guilt pricked her again for allowing the conversation to remain in past tense…as if his father were deceased. Another selfish gesture on her part.

But life was so much easier that way.

“Am I named after him?”

Tension whipped through Bree. That was a place she definitely didn’t want to go. Her cell phone vibrated. Relief flared. Talk about being saved by the bell, or, in this case, the vibration. “Hold on, honey.” Bree withdrew the phone from the case on her belt and opened it. “Hunter.”

“Detective Hunter, this is Officer Danny Brewer.”

Though she was acquainted with a fair number of local law enforcement members, particularly those on the reservation, the name didn’t strike a chord. She couldn’t readily associate the name with one department or the other, making it hard to anticipate whether his call was something or nothing. That didn’t prevent a new kind of tension from sending her instincts to the next level. “What can I do for you, Officer Brewer?”

“Well, ma’am, we have a situation.”

His tone told her far more than his words. Something.

When she would have asked for an explanation, he went on, “We have a one eighty-seven.”

Adrenaline fired in Bree’s veins. Before she could launch the barrage of homicide-related questions that instantly sprang to mind, Brewer tacked on, “My partner said I should call you. He would’ve called himself but he’s been busy puking his guts out ever since we took a look at the…vic.”

Damn. Another victim.

Bree blinked, focused on the details she knew so far. Puking? Had to be Officer Steve Cyrus. She knew him well. Poor Cyrus lost his last meal at every scene involving a body.

One eighty-seven.

Damn.

Another murder.

“Location?” Bree glanced at her son. She would drop him off at school and head straight to the scene. Hell of a way to start a Monday morning. Frustration hit on the heels of the adrenaline. She’d worked a case of rape and attempted murder just this weekend. As hard as her team toiled to prevent as well as solve violent crimes it never seemed to be enough.

“The Tribal Park.” Brewer cleared his throat. “In the canyon close to the Two-Story House. One of the guides who checks the trails a couple of times a week during the off-season found the victim.”

“Don’t let him out of your sight,” Bree reminded. She would need to question the guide at length. Chances were he would be the closest thing to a witness, albeit after the fact, she would get. “Did you ID the victim?” She hoped this wasn’t another rape as well. Twelve days into the New Year and they’d had two of those already. Both related to drug use.

Bree frowned at the muffled conversation taking place on the other end of the line. It sounded like Brewer was asking his partner what he should say in answer to her question. Weird.

“Ma’am,” Brewer said, something different in his voice now, “Steve said just get here as fast as you can. He’ll explain the details then.”

When the call ended Bree stared at her phone then shook her head.

Damned weird.

“M-o-o-o-m,” Peter said, drawing out the single syllable, “you didn’t answer my question.”

She definitely didn’t have time for that now. More of that guilt heaped on her shoulders at just how relieved she was to have an excuse not to go there. “We’ll have to talk about it later. That was another police officer who called. I have to get to work.”

Peter groaned, but didn’t argue with her. He knew that for his mom work meant something bad had happened to someone.

As Bree guided her vehicle into the school’s drop-off lane, she considered her little boy. She wanted life on the reservation to continue to improve. For him. For the next generation, period. As hard as she worked, at times it never seemed to be enough.

“Have a good day, sweetie.” She smoothed his hair and kissed the top of his head.

His cheeks instantly reddened. “Mom.”

Bree smiled as he hopped out of the SUV and headed for Towaoc Elementary’s front entrance. Her baby was growing up. Her smile faded. There would be more questions about his father.

She couldn’t think about that right now.

Right now she had a homicide to investigate.

ONLY A FEW minutes on Highway 160 were required to reach the Ute Mountain Tribal Park. She turned into the park entrance near the visitor’s center, a former gas station that had been repurposed. Getting into the park was easy, reaching the ancient cliff face Ancestral Puebloan dwellings was another story.

A rough dirt road barely wide enough for her SUV was the only way besides making the trek on foot or horseback. The SUV bumped over the rutted dirt road. Twice Bree was forced to maneuver around ottoman-sized boulders from a recent rock slide. The road, which was more of a trail, was definitely better suited for traveling by horse or on foot. Since time was of the essence she would just have to deal with the less than favorable driving conditions. Every minute wasted allowed the possibility of trace evidence contamination or loss of that essential evidence entirely.

The harsh, barren landscape had a character wholly of its own. Basins with scatterings of sage and juniper and pine forests broke up the thousands of acres of desolation. Gray cliffs and brick-red buttes soaked up the scorching sun that even in the dead of winter and cloaked with snow somehow kept the temps comfortable enough most of the time. Not much otherwise in the way of color, but the amazing Colorado sky made up for it with vivid shades of blue broken only by the snow-capped peaks that added another layer of enchantment.

In the distance, providing a dramatic backdrop, was the giant Sleeping Ute Mountain. The name had come from the fact that the mountain’s shape gave the appearance of a giant warrior sleeping on his back with arms crossed over his chest. The stories about the cliff dwellings and the great sleeping warrior who’d become a mountain had kept her enthralled as a kid.

At close to fifty degrees, it could have been a nice day. Bree sighed as she caught sight of the official Ute Reservation police SUV. A beat-up old pickup, probably belonging to the guide, was parked next to the SUV.

Another murder.

The idea that Steve Cyrus wanted her on the scene before he passed along any known details nagged at her again. What was with the mystery?

She parked her vehicle, grabbed a pair of latex gloves from her console and climbed out. She headed toward the cliffs where the two-story, sandstone dwelling hung, a proud, crumbling reminder of the residents who built them more than a millennium ago. The dwellings here were every bit as breathtaking as Mesa Verde’s, but this park didn’t get near the tourist flow. Primarily because no one came in without an official Ute guide. Preservation was far too important to her people.

Both officers as well as the guide waited some fifty yards from the area where during tourist season folks scrambled up the cliff face to check out the condos of the past. The perpetrator apparently hadn’t been too concerned with concealing the body, though the location was definitely off the beaten path to some degree, particularly this time of year. Yet, most anyone who might have been out here could have stumbled over the scene. Or the act in progress.

Just another strange element.

As if her instincts had picked up on something in the air, her pulse rate quickened.

“Hunter,” Steve Cyrus called out as he headed in her direction. “I need a minute.” He hustled over to meet her.

“What’s going on?” She glanced to where Brewer and the old man waited. “You got a body or what?”

Cyrus sent an oddly covert glance in that same direction. “Before you take a look there’s something you need to know.”

This got stranger by the moment. Bree held up her hands. “Wait—have you called the lab? The coroner?” The realization that no one—no one— else had arrived as of yet abruptly cut through all the confusion.

Cyrus shook his head, looked at the ground before meeting her gaze. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know who the hell to call first. This is…complicated. That’s why I called you before anyone else.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Cyrus?” Good grief, it wasn’t like this was the first deceased victim he’d come upon.

“The vic…” He scrubbed a hand over his chin. “She’s…”

At least Bree now knew that the victim was female.

“She’s a federal agent.”

Federal agent? “BIA?” Her first thought was that an agent from the Bureau of Indian Affairs had been murdered. The controversy over who was boss, Tribal Affairs or BIA, was an ongoing issue. Things got complicated and damned hot at times.

Cyrus shook his head. “FBI. Julie Grainger.”

Regret hardened to a lump in Bree’s gut. She’d only met Julie Grainger once. Nice lady. Young, early thirties, like Bree. Hard worker. Loyal. A damned good agent from all indications.

“I told you this was complicated.”

No kidding. “All right.” Bree rubbed her forehead, an ache starting there. “I’ll take a look and talk to the guide. You call Callie MacBride and get her lab techs over here. Tell her it’s Grainger.” A mixture of frustration and more of that regret dragged at Bree’s shoulders. “Then call the coroner’s office.” Think, Bree. This one will be sticky. Protocol has to be followed to the letter.

“You want me to call Sheriff Martinez?” Cyrus suggested.

A vise clamped around Bree’s chest. This was Kenner County…of course the sheriff would need to be involved. Bree heard herself say yes. What else could she say? Then she did an about-face, her movements stiff, and headed to where Brewer and the guide waited.

Patrick Martinez.

No matter that he had been the sheriff of the county for the last six years, somehow she had managed to avoid running into him. They hadn’t spoken in nearly eight years.

Eight years!

Focus on the job.

Special Agent Julie Grainger was dead. She deserved Bree’s full attention.

Nothing else mattered right now. Determining why she was dead and who killed her was top priority. “Yeah, do that. But call the others first.”

“Morning, Detective,” Brewer said as she approached.

“Good morning, Officer Brewer.”

“This is Burt Hayes.” Brewer gestured to the guide.

Hayes was Ute, as all park guides were. Bree’s family was Ute, as well. Hayes had that aged, craggy look, the one that said he’d spent almost as much time in the scorching Western sun as the Puebloan dwellings. He wore faded jeans and beneath the matching denim jacket an equally faded khaki shirt, along with leather boots that had seen far better days. His graying hair was pulled into a ponytail that reached the middle of his back.

“Mr. Hayes.” Bree extended her hand, gave his a firm shake. “I need to take a look around, then I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Hayes nodded. “You Charlie Hunter’s girl?”

Most folks around the Four Corners area knew her father. He’d once been an outspoken advocate for the Ute people and tribal affairs…before a stroke had silenced his deep, strong voice.

“Yes, sir.” Bree smiled. “And he’s still as ornery as ever.” She turned to Officer Brewer. “Why don’t you assist Mr. Hayes with filling out his statement while I have a look at the scene?”

Brewer nodded, didn’t comment or ask any questions, which meant that neither he nor Cyrus had done that part yet. Learning the victim was a federal agent had shaken them both.

Complicated.

Definitely complicated.

The silence felt deafening as Bree tugged on the latex gloves and crouched next to the victim nestled amid the rocks ensconced in the desert sand. Grainger’s slender body was bloated with the ugliness of death, her skin pale and marbleized. One hand had been ravaged by wildlife, probably coyotes. Bree grimaced. They were damned lucky there wasn’t more damage.

Bree visually examined the body for indications of the kind of violence done by man. No blood. Redness and bruising on the throat. No other signs of violence were visible except ligature marks on her throat. Bree leaned as close as possible and studied the marks. A unique pattern…not mere twine, certainly not a particularly thin wire. The longer she looked the more familiar the pattern appeared. Maybe a necklace of some sort. She’d definitely seen something like it before. Though Bree felt fairly certain cause of death was strangulation, the coroner would make the final conclusion.

She sat back on her haunches and inventoried more details. Jeans, blouse, which, on closer inspection, had a tear in one sleeve as if she’d struggled briefly with her attacker. Hiking boots. But no jacket. Though the weather was definitely tolerable, the last couple of days the temps had hovered in the lower forties. Jacket wearing weather for sure.

Bree surveyed the landscape. No vehicle. She wandered wide around the body, careful of every step. No visible shoe imprints. With the dusty terrain and the ever-present wind, that was no real surprise. No purse. No cell phone. Most females carried some sort of purse, even if only a small clutch. And cell phones, hardly anyone left home without them these days.

Had the body been dumped here, making this location the secondary crime scene, or had Grainger met someone here who had taken her personal effects and vehicle after taking her life?

This part of the park’s entry and exit possibilities via vehicle were limited to say the least.

The thought drew Bree’s gaze to the road. A dust cloud bloomed, announcing that someone was coming…fast. An SUV bucked along the trail-turned-road until it skidded to a halt next to Bree’s vehicle. The dust settled and her denial-swaddled brain registered what her eyes had already recognized.

Official vehicle.

Kenner County.

Had Cyrus called the sheriff first? Now that she thought about it, that didn’t add up. There was no way the sheriff could have gotten here this fast unless he’d heard already. Before Cyrus called anyone.

The driver’s-side door opened and her heart seemed to stall in her chest. A booted foot hit the ground as the trademark white cowboy hat rose above the open door. Broad shoulders followed that same route…then a tall, lean body gloved in jeans and a brown sheriff’s department jacket moved aside and the driver’s-side door slammed shut.

Patrick Martinez.

Sheriff Patrick Martinez.

Peter’s father.

He strode toward her and Bree snapped out of the ridiculous trance she’d slipped into. Focus. She was a professional; he was a professional. There was no need to let personal feelings get in the way of doing the job. She’d considered long and hard what she would do if this situation ever arose. Now was the time to put that plan into action.

“Sheriff,” she said, taking the first step.

Vivid blue eyes, ones exactly like her son’s, zeroed in on Bree’s like a laser hitting its target. Patrick nodded curtly. “Detective.”

“The victim’s over here.” Bree walked back to where Grainger’s body lay waiting to reveal the story behind the final moments of her life.

Had Cyrus or Brewer called MacBride yet? Those lab folks should be here. Now.

Patrick crouched to get a closer look. Bree did the same. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and tugged them on. “Who found her?”

The pain in his deep voice reflected the ache of finding one of his own murdered. Every victim was a tragedy, but the loss of a colleague was like losing a family member.

“Burt Hayes. Park guide.” Hayes was still giving his statement to Brewer. “He checks the trails every couple of days. Found her this morning. Looks like she may have been here a couple of days.”

Patrick nodded. Bree tried hard not to stare at his profile. This wasn’t the time. No time would be right…not for the two of them. Still, she couldn’t look away. Strong, square jaw. He hadn’t taken the time to shave that morning, but the stubble looked good on him. Always had. For a man closer to forty than thirty, he looked damned good.

Being so near Patrick after all this time made her even more aware of how very much her son looked like him.

“Coroner on his way?”

Bree blinked. Concentrate. “Officer Cyrus called the coroner and Callie MacBride at the crime lab just before you arrived.”

“But he didn’t call me.” Patrick rose, towered over her before her brain could send the message to her suddenly rubbery legs to stand. He took a long look around the area. “You and your people sure got out here in one hell of a hurry.”

The accusation in the sheriff’s eyes when his gaze settled on hers once more ticked her off, exiled all the other emotional confusion of seeing him again after eight years…after the discussion with her son not an hour ago…after everything.

“Cyrus was about to call your office when you arrived.” She lifted her chin, sent a lead-filled gaze right back at him. “The initial call came into TPD, Cyrus and Brewer got here first, then called me. Obviously someone called you.”

“We got a 9-1-1 call,” he explained. “The caller didn’t identify himself, but there was no question that he was male.” Patrick jerked his head toward the guide. “Any idea why he would call your department and report his discovery, then call 9-1-1?”