Before Sunrise. Diana Palmer
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gently. “So did a few others.”
“Not enough of us did,” Marie said sadly. “But, about that gold—there are lots of caves.”
“Any at those construction sites?”
“There’s a mountain that adjoins all three of them, near a river, and it’s honeycombed with caves,” Marie said. “They were bulldozing near them last week. Chances are that no matter what that man found, if it wasn’t inside a cave, it’s a pile of rubble by now.”
“What if,” Phoebe wondered aloud, “we could get an injunction to halt construction everywhere until we had time to look?”
“What if we got sued by starving construction workers?” Marie asked, putting things into perspective. “Plenty of men from the reservation work for those companies. It’s going to hit a lot of families hard if we shut those companies down. And how would you get the authority to do it, anyway?”
Phoebe grimaced. “I wish I knew.”
They went back to work. Alone in her office, Phoebe tried to come to grips with Cortez’s unexpected presence in her life. It had wounded her to have to see him again with the past lying between them like a bloodied knife.
She wondered why he’d come here. He couldn’t have known she was working nearby. He’d obviously been back with the FBI for some period of time, to be assigned to this case. But where was he working out of?
She tried to recall every single word the murdered man had said. She pulled up a blank file on her computer and started typing. She was able to reconstruct most of their brief conversation, along with putting color into the man’s accent. He had a definite Southern accent, which would help place him. He had a way of talking that sounded like a bad stutter, or a lack of cohesive thought. He’d mentioned two people, a developer and another person who was apparently feeding him information. That might be useful. He’d opened the door and someone had called to him while he talking to her, definitely a woman’s voice. It had been at exactly 3:10 p.m. the day before. None of it was worth much alone, but it might give the authorities something more to go on.
She wasn’t going to phone Cortez. How could she, when she had no idea where he was? But she could give the information to Drake when he came by her house the next morning. He’d give it to the proper people.
She saved the file and went back to her budget plan. Unfortunately she forgot all about it in the sudden arrival of a late group wanting a tour of the facility.
The next morning, she was just finishing her small breakfast when she heard the sound of a truck coming down her long dirt driveway. Jock, her black chow, was barking loudly from his vigil on the front porch.
Phoebe went onto the porch in sock feet, jeans and a sweatshirt, a cup of coffee in one hand. Drake drove up in a black truck and parked at the steps.
“Got some more coffee?” he asked as he dragged out of the truck in boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt under a black and red flannel shirt. “I need fortifying. I’ve just been flayed, filleted and grilled by the FBI!”
CHAPTER FOUR
PHOEBE STARED AT HIM. “The FBI?” she asked warily.
“Your buddy Cortez,” he replied, following her inside. He’d been wearing dark glasses, but he folded them and tucked them into his shirt pocket. He sat down heavily at her kitchen table. “That man would intimidate a timber rattler!” he exclaimed.
“What did he want to know?”
Drake gave her a wry glance as he poured cream in the coffee she’d given him. “We could make a list of the things he didn’t want to know—it would be shorter. I gather you told him I was giving you shooting lessons?”
She grimaced. “Sorry. I did.”
“He doesn’t think you’ll shoot another person regardless of the incentive,” he added.
Her jaw fell. She wanted to argue with that premise, but she couldn’t.
He shrugged. “I had to agree. Sorry,” he added wryly.
“I’m a wimp. What can I say?” She sighed. “But I think I might be able to shoot to wound somebody.”
“That would probably cost you your life. We’re talking split seconds here, not deliberating time.”
She studied him curiously. He’d looked very young when he was coming by her office to check on things, but in the morning light, she realized that he was older than she’d first thought.
He gave her a grin. “You’re thinking I’ve aged. I have. Cortez put ten years on me. See these gray hairs?” He indicated his temples. “They’re from last night.”
“He’s a little abrasive,” she agreed.
“A little abrasive,” he muttered. “Right. And the Smoky Mountains are little hills.” He traced the rim of his coffee mug. It was faded, like most of her dinnerware, but serviceable. “Obviously you’ve met him before.”
She nodded. “He’s a sort-of friend,” she said evasively.
“He knew you were here before he ever came to investigate the murder,” he said abruptly.
Her eyes widened with surprise. “How?”
“He didn’t say. But he’s worried about you. He can’t seem to hide it.”
She didn’t know how to take that. She stared at her coffee cup.
“Most people who come to small towns like this—people who aren’t born here—are trying to get away from something that hurts them,” he said slowly. “Marie and I figured that’s why you’re here.”
She lifted the cup to her mouth and took a sip, ignoring the sting of heat.
“And now I understand the reason,” he added with pursed lips. “It’s about six foot one and has the cuddly personality of a starving black bear.”
She laughed softly.
“I could think up lots more adjectives, but they wouldn’t suit the company,” he mused. He shook his head. “Damn, that man goes for the jugular. I’ll bet he’s good at his job.”
“He was a federal prosecutor when I knew him,” she revealed. “And he was good at it.”
“He went voluntarily from a desk job to beating the bushes for lawbreakers?” he asked, surprised. “What would make a man do that?”
“Beats me. Maybe his wife didn’t like living in D.C.”
He was still for a few seconds. “He’s married?”
She nodded.
“Poor woman!” he exclaimed with heartfelt compassion.
She laughed in spite of the pain.
“That explains the kid, I guess,” he mused.
“What kid?” she asked, feeling her heart break all over again.
“He’s got a little boy with him. They’re staying in a motel in town. I noticed a woman going in and out—the baby-sitter, I suppose. He didn’t treat her like the kid’s mother.”
“A boy or a girl?” She had to know.
“A boy. About two years old,” he replied. “Cute little boy. Laughs a lot. Loves his dad.”
Phoebe couldn’t picture Cortez with a child. But it explained why he might have married in such a rush. No wonder he hadn’t been interested in going to bed with her, when he already had a woman in his life. He could have told her…
“I brought a target with me,” he interrupted her thoughts. “I thought we could draw Cortez’s face on it.”
She laughed.
“That’s