Old Bones, page 25
Nora thought about this. Even though Burleson seemed like a straight shooter, Clive had a point—a good point. “We’d better keep an eye on him,” she said.
“Dr. Kelly? Dr. Benton?” came a crisp voice from behind them. They turned to see Dr. Jill Fugit, President of the Institute, approaching them from across the saloon.
“I’ve been looking for you two,” she said, a displeased look on her face. She glanced around. “Let’s talk in private. My room.”
43
FUGIT HAD TAKEN the best lodging at the inn, a large room under the eaves with a kitchenette and a sitting area with a gas fireplace. A row of dormer windows looked out over the forest, rising steeply into the mountains. As they entered, Fugit waved them into wing chairs on either side of the fireplace while she took the sofa.
“You can guess why I’m here,” she said. “I’m very concerned about what’s going on. I’m especially worried for the safety of our people.” She paused. “And I’d also like to know how a simple, uncomplicated archaeological expedition spiraled into murder and scandal.”
She sat back in the sofa, arms crossed, her gaze on Nora.
Nora felt a flaring of anger at her attitude. After dealing with that arrogant FBI agent, the last thing she needed was Fugit’s interference. But getting into a fight with her boss was a bad idea, so Nora swallowed and tried to modulate her voice. “Let me start by saying the excavation has been an unqualified success. We’ve mapped the entire camp and uncovered a trove of information and artifacts that will be studied for years to come.”
“Except, of course, for the stolen bones.”
“Dr. Fugit, the bones had to be kept in situ, and there was no way to protect them or lock them up until they could be removed for curation at the close of the dig. Nobody had any idea Peel would steal them. And in any case, all the bones we’d found have been recovered, except for one cranium and a few vertebrae.”
“What about the death of this man Wiggett?”
“The FBI are investigating. They won’t give us any information.”
“I intend to speak to this FBI agent as soon as she comes back down from the site. I talked with her once before, and she sounded out of her depth, hurling accusations left and right.”
God help her, Nora thought, not without satisfaction.
Fugit turned to Clive. “And your views on the situation?”
“I agree with Nora. It’s been a successful expedition. I don’t see how these problems could have been anticipated or avoided. Certainly none of them are Nora’s fault. To be blunt, all the difficulties seem to lie with the wranglers hired by the Institute—not us.”
“Speaking of the Institute, do you have any idea how much this project has cost us to date? Just shy of half a million dollars. You need to get back up there, finish the dig, and if possible find that gold.”
“Agent Swanson said we could return in forty-eight hours.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t account for the big storm that’s rolling in. If it’s as bad as they’re predicting, it could be days before you can get back up there.”
“We’ll deal with that once Nora gets the green light from Agent Swanson,” Clive told her. “I’m certain the gold is up there. We’ve narrowed the search to a single area.”
“I certainly hope that’s the case. Now, I understand the FBI are going to be conducting detailed interviews. Keep in mind the Institute needs to be cast in a favorable light.” She leaned forward. “As you said, these troubles originated with the Red Mountain Ranch and their wranglers. Nothing to do with us. Right?”
“Right,” said Clive.
“Thank you. Now I’d like a few private words with Nora, if you don’t mind.”
Clive rose and left the room. Fugit turned to Nora, her look softening. “I’m sorry to seem so critical. I know this has been difficult. And I suspect my arrival was not exactly a pleasant surprise.”
Nora hadn’t anticipated this change of tone.
She went on. “I was truly concerned when I heard there had been an accidental death, and then a murder. I didn’t want to mention it in front of Dr. Benton, but I hope you understand that I couldn’t stay away.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Nora lied.
“Now we need to talk about the press. So far, nothing’s come out. But it will. You’ll have to be prepared.”
“How?”
“You’re going to be asked questions—pointed ones. My advice is to say as little as possible without seeming evasive. Anticipate the questions and write out your bullet points ahead of time. The dig was a great success; you accomplished everything you came here to do; the historic importance of the discovery is peerless. Yes, there were some unfortunate events, but only involving the wranglers hired to support the expedition—nothing to do with the Institute.”
Nora nodded. It was, after all, true, and not just spin the president of a prestigious organization would be expected to employ.
“Do you agree with Dr. Benton? That you’ll find the gold, I mean?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Fugit seemed to relax a little, and then she actually smiled. “I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of him, but I want you to know: I think you’re doing an exceptional job under difficult circumstances.” She leaned over. “You’re a first-rate archaeologist, Nora. The best at the Institute. And I’m going to make sure that FBI agent doesn’t impede the completion of your work. I know people in Washington. I can pull strings and, with any luck, rein in that overeager rookie.”
“Thank you,” Nora said sincerely. “I’d appreciate that very much.”
“When the FBI releases the site, make it a priority to get the bones prepped for transport and the dig secured—just in case they try to bother you again. And find that gold. The Institute can hardly afford to go half a million dollars in the red.”
“We’ll do our best.”
Fugit laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to get through this. Whatever you need, just let me know.”
44
May 20
CORRIE RODE DOWN the canyon from the camp, unaccompanied. She had managed to squeeze in her forty-eight allotted hours, and then some, before the storm was to arrive, and for that she was grateful. On the other hand, a meticulous search of the camp had yielded no smoking gun. In fact, she had to admit they hadn’t found any incriminating evidence at all. If the killer was a member of the team, he had been a lot more careful than Corrie initially assumed.
They had made one significant discovery: the glacial tarn in the little cirque up behind the camp was the actual site of the homicide. The killer had tried to cover it up, smoothing the ground along the shore and replacing overturned stones, but a careful inspection revealed it to be the place of a struggle. Beyond it they had found imperfectly concealed drag marks heading toward the spot where the body was found.
But this only raised more questions. What was Wiggett doing up at the lake in the middle of the night? Was he meeting someone? Had he been lured there? He’d left his tent with obvious deliberation, dressing warmly and putting on his hiking boots rather than his cowboy boots. So he was expecting rough terrain. The M.E.’s report would hopefully verify the sequence of injuries leading to his death—but she wasn’t sure that would help her reconstruct the crime.
If someone in camp had killed Wiggett, he or she had left no obvious evidence. Corrie was starting to favor the idea that someone on the outside, lurking near the camp, had been shadowing the group and committed the murders. She’d sent Devlin and his group to search the surrounding forest for signs of recent disturbance, but they had turned up nothing.
They’d all left at noon, but Corrie had stubbornly stayed behind, unwilling to leave the area, thinking there must be something—something—they had missed that would point to a killer. How many times had she made one “final” pass through camp? But now the window of opportunity had closed and she had to hustle back down the trail. Even hurrying, she would probably not arrive before dark, and already the wind was rising. The storm was predicted to move in around dawn. Waiting for her at the head of the trail would be Morwood and, perhaps, the new special agent from the Sacramento office who was going to take over the investigation.
And that would be it.
As she rode, she found herself filled with frustration: at the lack of evidence; at her inability to develop a theory of the crime; at her failure to find a connection to the Parkin case. She couldn’t help but go over the mistakes she’d made: talking too much, telling people she thought Peel might have been murdered, alienating Devlin, and letting Nora Kelly push her into limiting the camp closure to forty-eight hours.
But maybe the case was as simple as Morwood believed—this was a sordid murder involving the twenty million in gold and nothing more. He had decades of experience under his belt, and she had just a few months. One thing they’d hammered into her in the Academy was that the right solution to a crime was usually the one most obvious. Avoid the temptation to look for devious motives and unlikely conspiracies, one instructor had said. Life is not an Agatha Christie novel. Criminals are stupid and most crimes are banal and obvious.
Suddenly she looked up, realizing she was in unfamiliar territory. A giant spruce, split in half by lightning, stood in front of her—she’d never seen that before. She cursed out loud. Wallowing in self-pity, she had ridden off the route.
She took out her cell phone and checked her location on the GPS app. Even though there was no cell reception, the phone’s independent GPS was working and she had previously downloaded the requisite maps of the area. It showed that instead of riding down Hackberry Creek from the Poker Creek junction, she had missed the turn and instead ridden half a mile up an unnamed side canyon on the far side of the creek.
Four o’clock. Dark clouds covered the sky and the air smelled of gathering electricity. “Let’s go, Sierra,” she said, awkwardly turning her horse around. “Come on, boy. Faster!”
The sluggish horse, unmoved by her entreaties, slowly turned and plodded back down the canyon.
“Hurry up, for Chrissakes!” She shook the reins, but the horse ignored her.
She would never get used to riding. Her whole body seemed to ache. As she rode alongside the creek, she passed through a clearing and noticed the remains of a fire ring. She drew a sudden breath. Maybe this was the camp of the person or persons shadowing the group.
“Whoa, Sierra! Whoa, goddamn it!”
The horse reluctantly came to a halt. Corrie dismounted and tied his halter rope to a tree. She approached cautiously, trying not to disturb anything. But on getting closer, she was disappointed to see the fire ring was old. Autumn leaves and pine needles had collected in the fire pit, which meant the rude camp had to date back to before the previous fall. Nobody had been here since.
Still, it was an odd place to camp, off any trail, next to a stream too tiny for fishing, in a dark and depressing canyon. She picked up a stick and stirred the old ashes, uncovering a few pieces of trash, singed here and there but still relatively intact. Feeling a little silly, she slipped them into an evidence bag. That was something else the Quantico instructor had said: If in doubt, take it out.
She untied the horse and remounted, urging him along. The rising wind was tossing the treetops, making a hissing noise. She had three hours to ride a dozen miles before the sun set, on a rugged trail. Son of a bitch, she was really cutting it close.
She gave Sierra a vigorous kick and finally got him into a slow trot. She hated trotting—it bounced her all over the place—but she’d rather have a sore ass than get lost at night in the mountains on the leading edge of a storm.
* * *
She arrived at Red Mountain Ranch as the last light was disappearing in the west. Sure enough, Morwood was waiting as she rode in.
“Jesus, Swanson, I was getting worried!” he said as she got off the horse and handed the reins to a wrangler, then hobbled over. She could barely walk.
“You okay?” Morwood asked.
“No worries, just crippled for life from riding that glue plug,” Corrie said.
“You shouldn’t have ridden down alone.”
“I wanted to go over the site one last time.”
“And?”
She shook her head.
They walked toward the parking lot. “I wanted to tell you that Special Agent Nick Chen has been assigned the case,” Morwood told her. “He’ll be arriving from Sacramento tomorrow morning. He’s got a spotless record and—just as important—a rep for being a nice guy. I think you’ll enjoy working with him on the transition.”
“Okay.”
Morwood smiled like a matchmaker. “I’m heading out tonight on a late flight for Albuquerque. Corrie, you’ll stay here long enough to bring Agent Chen up to speed. I’ve booked you at the Truckee Inn for the next several days. Transfer all your notes, evidence, and so forth to him. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait out the storm that’s coming, but after it passes I’d like you to take him up to the camp, show him around, and introduce him to the group. And then rejoin me in Albuquerque.”
“Okay.”
“Any questions?”
“No, sir,” she said.
They got into Morwood’s car and he drove down the highway toward the Truckee Inn. As she got out, he offered her his hand. “If I weren’t headed to the airport, I’d buy you a big steak. Good job, Agent Swanson—and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
* * *
As Corrie passed through the lobby, heading for the check-in desk, a tall, well-dressed blond woman came striding up, glasses dangling from her neck on a thin gold chain.
“Special Agent Swanson?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Fugit, president of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. We spoke on the phone, as you’ll recall.” She shook Corrie’s hand and then slid her glasses on, examining Corrie as if she were an archaeological specimen. “Do you have a minute?”
“Ah…” She remembered Morwood’s warning about getting along with everyone. “Yes, I do. How can I help?”
Fugit led them over to a private area at one side of the lobby. They sat down on an orange sofa and Fugit leaned toward Corrie, her voice suddenly ice cold. “It seems you think my team is harboring a murderer. Is that right?”
Corrie took a moment to ponder the best reply. Stay neutral, don’t take offense. “Nobody’s been accused of anything,” she said, “and nobody’s making allegations. We’re conducting a routine homicide investigation.”
“Routine? You shut down an entire archaeological site!”
“We’re done with our evidence gathering. As soon as I see Nora I’ll be releasing the site to her and the team.”
“Not much good now, is it, with the storm bearing down on us?”
Her tone had become bitingly sarcastic, and Corrie didn’t respond. As if dealing with Nora weren’t enough, her boss was a straight-up bitch.
“Do you have any suspects? A motive? Anything?”
“I’m sorry, we can’t share specifics.” She shifted on the couch. “What I can tell you is that the investigation is being transferred to the Sacramento Field Office.”
“And what am I supposed to infer from that?”
“That a Special Agent Chen will be taking over, and I’ll be heading back to New Mexico. You can address your concerns to him.” And he can tell you exactly where to stick your archaeological dig. Corrie smiled.
Fugit took off the glasses and let them drop. “It appears to me the handling of this investigation to date has been incompetent and inconsiderate. I’ll be filing a complaint.”
“That’s your privilege, of course,” said Corrie. “But I think you’ll find everything’s been done by the book.”
“We’ll see.”
“Let me just assure you the FBI fully expects to solve this case and apprehend the perpetrator.” Corrie struggled to keep her voice neutral as she fed the president this platitude.
Fugit stood up. “I sincerely hope you do.” She paused. “And about the gold up there. I assume you know about that?”
“I was briefed.”
“So how does it fit in? Is the murder connected in some way?”
“Again, Dr. Fugit, I can’t go into that.”
“What can you go into?”
“As I’ve repeatedly explained—nothing.”
Fugit frowned. Then, without another word, she turned and left, not offering her hand, the heels of her black slingbacks echoing on the wooden floor.
Corrie took in a shuddering breath. She had to work on not letting bullies like Fugit get under her skin. She’d been bullied as a teenager and was hypersensitive to it. This was a weakness, and if she was ever to make a good FBI agent, she’d better learn to deal with it.
45
May 21
BURLESON WAS ADAMANT: no horses, no wranglers, nothing.
“We can’t go up there,” he said, still groggy from sleep after being roused by Nora showing up on his doorstep at seven in the morning. “Not in this weather. And we sure as hell can’t be responsible for your well-being.”
He’d been saying the same thing for the past ten minutes, and no amount of begging, threatening, or wheedling could shift him. “But I’m not asking you to go—” Nora began again.
“End of discussion. Sorry, Nora—you’re just going to have to wait it out.”
* * *
Back in town and on her way to the inn for a badly needed cup of coffee, Nora came around a corner and nearly ran into Agent Swanson, headed in the other direction.
Nora frowned and looked away, hoping to dash by. But no such luck.
“Nora,” Corrie said. “Do you have a moment?”
Nora was in no mood to talk to this woman. “What now?”
“There’s one other thing I meant to tell you. The Wiggett homicide is being turned over to the Sacramento Field Office. Special Agent Chen is arriving today to take over.”
