Blood Quantum Read online

  "Usually, if it's not caught in time. Its effects can be reversed, as long as the patient isn't too far gone."

  "Okay," she said. "Thanks, Doc. I have to go." Her shoes clicked across the morgue's tile floor as she hurried toward the exit.

  She called Sam Vega on her way to her car. He answered on the second ring. "You're still working, too?" she asked.

  "I am."

  "Good. Meet me at the Cameron estate.'

  "When?"

  "Now. Or sooner."

  "Sounds important. I'm on my way."

  "It is," Catherine said. "I'll see you there."

  She got into the car and jammed her key into the ignition. As she turned it, the engine roared to life.

  She wondered if Ecklie's head would make that same noise when he heard about this.

  At least she would have Vega along with her. He could report that she'd only had Helena Cameron's best interests in mind.

  She even thought about calling Ecklie, briefly. But he would tell her not to go, and then they would waste time arguing.

  Time that Helena Cameron might not be able to spare.

  19

  Keith Hyatt led Ray once again to the comfortable living room where Ray had spent so many hours in the company of friends. Out of habit, Ray took his usual position, at the right end of a couch that was broken in just right, with all the wrinkles and soft spots of an old friend. Ray's elbow slotted into the armrest as if it had been custom-made, instead of just worn down in that precise place. Keith occupied the leather chair he always used.

  "We so seldom see you twice in one day anymore," Keith said. "I guess you're not here again by happy accident."

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Is it about Robert Domingo?"

  "It is," Ray said, dropping his chin slightly. He had talked to Nick again on his way there, but Nick had been racing someplace, unable to spend much time elaborating on the situation.

  Keith straightened in his chair. He took naturally to the role of professor, as he always had, and Ray felt a little like a student dropping by the teacher's house after hours for advice. He had been on both sides of that situation, many times. "What do you need, Ray?"

  "Context," Ray said. "You told me about the blood-quantum issues, and I believe you were right, that plays a part in this somehow. But there's more going on than just that. One of our guys is on the Grey Rock reservation now, and he says it's like a war zone. There was a shooting today, multiple victims, including Meoqui Torres."

  "Oh, no," Keith said. His face blanched, and he gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles went white. "I hadn't heard about that."

  "Two guys in a pickup truck pulled up outside his house and opened fire. Nobody expects that to be the last of it."

  "No, I wouldn't, either," Keith said. "I suppose I'll have to tell Ysabel, although it will upset her terribly. Is Meoqui…?"

  "He's wounded, but he's alive," Ray told him.

  "That's something, at least. I assume he's getting medical attention?"

  "He was taken to a clinic."

  "Good, good. So what can I do to help?"

  "Here's what I need. Alive or dead, Domingo's got his people, right? Torres must have his supporters as well. Where are the lines drawn?"

  "In what way?"

  "Who would be on whose side? Would the police support Domingo's side, for instance?"

  "Oh, yes, for the most part. I mean, cops are working-class people, right? But there's that eternal conflict, because the whole point of police is obedience to authority, right? Maintaining the status quo. For working-class folks, and often union members, they tend to be on the conservative side. I'm not, um, not trying to be offensive – I keep forgetting you're a cop now."

  "I'm a scientist," Ray said. "I just work for the same side as the cops. But don't worry, I get your meaning, and I'm not offended."

  "Anyway, Chairman Domingo made sure the tribal police were in his pocket. He couldn't pay them a lot of money, but they made a decent living, especially by the prevalent standards on the rez. When he could, he got them new equipment. He made sure the blood-quantum rules were a bit more relaxed when it came to them and for anyone else he wanted to curry favor with. It's astonishing how flexible supposedly inviolable standards can be under the right circumstances. And in the event of any disagreements or controversies surrounding tribal law enforcement, he tried to side with the police. There'll be individual cops with different loyalties and, of course, some who are genuinely fair-minded and impartial. But as a group? Yes, they would be with him. Or with whoever his designated successor is, if he has one."

  "That's something else I wanted to ask about," Ray said. "If you know of any obvious successors."

  Keith considered for a moment, head back on the chair, eyes toward the vaulted, beamed ceiling. "No one in particular," he said. "I would look at the people running the enrollment eligibility office, because they're obviously people he put a lot of trust in. That's one of the most powerful offices in the tribe. And look at whoever he's put in charge of the new casino and spa, because the people who'll be handling the big money would be high up on his list. I mean, if you're looking for who would benefit financially from his death."

  "That's part of it," Ray said. "Although, honestly, that's more a job for the detectives. For my part, I just want to understand what I'm getting into."

  "You're going out there? To the rez?"

  "I have to. My colleague Nick is out there on his own, and I think it's too dangerous for that."

  "From the sound of things, you could well be right."

  "What else do I need to know, Keith? What's going to happen next?"

  "Money and power have flowed through Domingo's hands for a long time. He really cemented his hold on that office through the judicious application of those two forces. Now that he's gone, there's going to be a power struggle. I don't mean armed combat, although I certainly wouldn't rule that out. There's a lot at stake. It will be heated, if mostly political. Nobody will completely trust anyone. But for the most part, the sides will still be about where they are now. The power players are the ones who were close to Domingo, and they'll remain, by and large, in those same roles. The activists, the people pushing for social change, the ones you would equate to labor leaders, perhaps, will still be on Torres's side."

  "Okay, that's pretty much what I suspected, but I needed to have it confirmed. Thanks, Keith."

  "One more thing?"

  "Yes?"

  "Since Domingo died, he won't be around to represent himself anymore. That means a lot of people will be saying they know what he would have wanted, whether they really do or not. And if Meoqui dies, he'll be a martyr to the opposition. Martyrs and dead men talking through the living are dangerous to be around."

  "Point taken," Ray said.

  "Since you're here, can you come in and say hello to Ysabel? If that's all you needed? She knows you're here, and she'd be crushed if you didn't drop in."

  "I'd be glad to. I really need to get up to the reservation, but I wouldn't think of not looking in on her."

  "Great." Keith pushed out of his chair, straining with the effort, and Ray followed him across the house to Ysabel's room. His wife's illness was weighing heavily on the man, Ray observed. Since his visit to the house earlier that morning, Keith looked as if he had aged five years.

  "Twice in one day?" Ysabel said when he walked through the door. "I thought I heard your voice. Is everything okay?"

  "I had a few questions for Keith.' Ray leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  "About that awful business with Robert?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid so."

  "Are you going to catch whoever did it?"

  "We'll catch him, Ysabel. I promise you that."

  "Well… I'm glad you came back, whatever the excuse. I have something for you."

  "For me?"

  "Yes!" She reached for something on the bedside table. Ray couldn't see what it was until she brought it around to hand hi
m.

  "That's the basket you were working on earlier."

  "It is. I was almost finished, but it hadn't told me yet who it was for. Then it spoke up and said it wanted to go home with you."

  "I'm honored."

  "I'm making them for some of my most special friends to… to remember me by. When I'm gone."

  "Ysabel," Ray said firmly. "You're not going anywhere."

  "Oh, I am, too. Look at me. Don't worry. I'm a little sad about it, because I'll miss all of you. But I'm not scared."

  "And anyway," Ray went on, "do you really think anyone who has ever known you could possibly forget you?"

  Ysabel laughed and squeezed his hand. Her hand felt as light as a bird's wing. "You're a charmer, aren't you? If I didn't have Keith…" She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "You could be my boyfriend."

  "I'd like that," Ray said. He held up the basket she had given him, admiring the workmanship. It was naturally colored, the tan of the main material, which Ray knew was some kind of desert plant, with darker browns and blacks from other local plants, all in a precise pattern of jagged lines and occasional swooping arcs. "It's beautiful. Like its maker. "

  "Speaking of beauty. Ray…"

  "Yes?"

  "Tonight Keith and I are going on one of those dinner cruises, out on Lake Mead. That's one of my favorite places, and I want to feel all that water under me one more time, and look out at the dry desert hills in the setting sun. Will you come with us, Ray?"

  "I would be delighted to."

  She clapped her hands together, almost childlike in her glee. "Oh, goody!'

  "If I can," Ray added. "I'm working today, and it has already been a very long day. But if I can get there in time, I'll meet you at the dock."

  "You'll try?"

  "I'll try. I promise."

  "That's the best you can do. Thank you, Ray. And thank you for accepting the basket. I hope you like it."

  "Better than that," he said. "I absolutely love it."

  *

  Aguirre drove Brass to Grey Rock Tobacco, the reservation's original smoke shop. It was off Interstate 15, visible from the freeway, and Brass knew from experience that there had been billboards along the side of the road for ages promoting it. He had never bothered to stop, but he knew the appeal was that, as a sovereign nation, the reservation didn't have to charge the same state excise taxes that off-reservation stores did. As a result, they could undercut the prices people paid in Las Vegas, and they had always done a brisk business.

  On the way, Aguirre's police radio crackled with new information, none of it good. Shots had been fired at a recreation center. Someone at a public swimming pool had been stabbed three times. Two store windows had been shattered by flung bricks. Fights were breaking out across the reservation, it seemed, neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother in some cases. Police and emergency services were being stretched thin.

  "Can you afford the time to keep looking with me?" Brass asked.

  "I can't afford not to. We need to find a way to bring a peaceful end to all this."

  "It's not always this way, is it?"

  "What, you think we're living in the Wild West?" Aguirre said with a not-so-nice laugh. "'Course not. It's all about Domingo. Like him or not, he was a stabilizing influence, because he held the power, and everybody knew it. With him out of the way, people are drawing up new sides or cementing their old ones. Add to that the shooting of Meoqui and his friends, and… well, there's a lot of tension around here today. What was it that guy in L.A. said? 'Can't we all just get along?' Something like that."

  "Rodney King," Brass said, remembering the African-American motorist pulled over and beaten by white highway patrol officers in Los Angeles. The acquittal of the officers in that case had touched off citywide riots in which fifty-one people died. Brass hoped the current situation didn't get anywhere near that bad. "Guy might have had a point."

  "Ruben Solis and Shep Moran hang out here a lot of the time," Aguirre said as they approached the smoke shop. "Domingo always had a soft spot for this place, even after the bigger, more profitable businesses got up and running. He had kind of a clubhouse in back, lots of his guys would come around, smoking and telling lies, you know."

  "You think Solis is there now?"

  "I don't know," Aguirre replied. "He doesn't have Domingo to follow around anymore, but my guess is that the people who were close to him are going to want to be together today. This is one of the places they might be."

  The smoke shop had been built in the early 1960s but remodeled in the late 1970s. It was an adobe structure, a single story on the wings but a big A-shaped peak in the middle that must have soared two stories higher. The A was all windows, offering clear views of the sales area inside, its shelves stacked high with cigarette cartons. The adobe section to the left of the A had four vertical window slits, while the walls of the section to the right were smooth and solid.

  Brass and Aguirre got out of the Jeep and walked casually to the front door, just two guys getting out of an official tribal police vehicle and going in for some butts. Inside, pink neon script identified a cigar room off to the left. On the right, the door into the solid section on the other side was unmarked.

  When Aguirre pushed the front door open, an electronic tone sounded. A Native American woman tossed them a friendly look from behind the sales counter. She wore a black Western-style shirt with embroidered cigarettes on it, smoke wafting up her shoulders in ornate curlicues. "Hi there, welcome to Grey Rock Tobacco," she said. "If there's anything I can help you find, just let me know."

  Aguirre snatched his straw cowboy hat off and tilted his head toward the unmarked door. "We'll be in there," he said.

  The woman's welcoming expression vanished. "I'm sorry, that's -"

  Aguirre tapped the badge on his chest and made for the door. As he reached it, a buzzing noise sounded, the young lady at the desk passing them through without further argument. Aguirre yanked the door open, and a cloud of smoke welled out. Brass quickly sucked in a deep breath of clean air and waded into the miasma.

  He had entered a stockroom, lined with steel shelving units holding cardboard cartons of tobacco products. Most of them had familiar printed logos, but there were also brand names Brass didn't know and others that weren't identified at all.

  In the middle of the room were a table and chairs and beyond them a separate seating area with a plush sofa and a couple more chairs, arranged around a low table. Ashtrays were everywhere, most of them full to overflowing.

  Half a dozen Native American men glared at the doorway as the two cops entered. They were older than the men Brass had seen at Torres's house, strands of silver icing their black hair in places, lined faces frowning. Brass noticed a lot of jewelry, most of it silver and turquoise but some also featuring accents of red coral, bone, and other materials.

  "This is a private area, Richie," one of them said. Deep furrows ran from the sides of his nose to the corners of his mouth, as if sliced there by a carving knife. "You know that. You have a warrant?"

  "We're looking for Ruben Solis and Shep Moran," Aguirre said. "Trying to help them dodge some trouble. Don't need a warrant for that."

  The man shrugged. "You see 'em here?"

  Aguirre made a show of looking around. "No, I sure don't. So maybe you can tell me where they are."

  "I run into 'em, I'll tell them you're looking. Maybe they'll give you a call."

  "That would be good," Aguirre said. "There's a lot of bad stuff going down around here, Russell. You know I don't have to tell you."

  "I know a great man was killed," Russell said. The other men murmured agreement. Most of them didn't look directly at Brass, but he knew he was being sized up just the same.

  "And we're trying to find out who killed him," Aguirre said. "I know you all were close to Robert, and I'm sorry for what happened to him. You can be sure nobody's taking it sitting down." He then said something else that Brass couldn't understand. Brass assumed he was spea
king in the Paiute tongue. The men acknowledged his words with glances and gestures, and a couple said something back, something that was equally unintelligible to Brass's ears.

  "Look, just track down Ruben and Shep, and tell them to get in touch with me," Aguirre said. "I'm not trying to jam anybody up over this – just trying to keep a lid on things so they don't boil over. Okay?"

  "We'll spread the word, Richie."

  "That's exactly what I need, thanks."

  Aguirre gave Brass a look and a nod, and they retreated from the smoke. On the way out the shop's front door, Brass asked him, "You think they'll really help us find Solis and Moran?"

  "Not a chance," Aguirre said. "But I wish I had taps on all their phones, 'cause I bet you one of them is calling those guys right now."

  "Warning them?"

  Aguirre chuckled dryly. "Yeah. They'll already know we're looking for them, so that's not going to make any difference in the long run. We'll just keep going till we find them, or we don't. I'm hoping we do."

  "That makes two of us," Brass said. "And maybe half a reservation who hope we don't. I'd hate to see the odds against us on the screen at a sports book."

  *

  "So what's the deal with you guys and tobacco?" Brass asked. "I mean, I know you can sell it at lower prices than off-reservation retailers because of the tax thing. But it seems like there's more to it than that."

  "Indians never used tobacco casually," Aguirre told him. "And we were using it long before you Europeans showed up here and started throwing up strip malls everywhere. We used it in ceremonies, for spiritual purposes or political ones, even medicinal. Shamans used to smoke larger amounts of it to get high. One cigarette won't do much, but try a pack or two at a time, and see what happens to you. Of course, it wasn't just about getting wasted; there was a ritual element to it. Tobacco was a part of Indian life. When the Europeans came and created a big new market for it, it became important to us commercially."