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  Harvin would be sleeping.

  He’d be angry beyond belief if she woke him up.

  He’d be even angrier if she didn’t.

  Okay.

  Do it.

  She headed outside, found a public phone a block down the street and called collect. The rasp in Harvin’s voice confirmed that he’d been dead to the world. Shade pictured him wrinkling every crease in his 51-year-old face and squinting at the clock.

  “It’s me,” she said.

  “Shade?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “Where are you?” She was about to tell him when he blurted, “No, don’t tell me.”

  Something was wrong.

  “What’s going on?”

  Harvin exhaled.

  “I’m going to go to hell for what I’m about to do, but screw it. Do you know a Cuban named Gurrero?”

  “No.”

  “Well he knows you,” Harvin said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s been in contact,” Harvin said. “He wants out of Cuba, he wants sanctuary in the United States. In return, he’s prepared to give up what he has on you.”

  Shade paced.

  “On me?”

  “Right.”

  “Which is what, exactly? What does he say he has on me?”

  “He says you’re a double spy. He says you’re feeding information to the Russians through your Cuban contacts.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “He says he has proof.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t even have any information to feed him. You know that.”

  “He says you have sources that feed you information.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “So what’s going on then?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “All I can think is that someone’s trying to set me up.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look,” Harvin said, “I’m being deliberately kept out of the investigation because of my relationship with you. All I’m getting is bits and pieces, and I have to call in markers to even get those. My official orders are to direct you to come back to D.C. and not say anything else.”

  “Thanks for not following orders.”

  He chuckled.

  “I guess I’m a little like you.”

  “I guess so.”

  “One more thing,” he said. “They were going to search your apartment this evening.” A pause. “Are they going to find anything?”

  “No. There’s nothing to find.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Trust me, I’m sure.”

  A beat.

  “Okay, call me tomorrow,” he said. “In the meantime, watch your back. If someone’s going to this much trouble to set you up they might be going to an equal amount of trouble to kill you. If I were you, I’d get out of wherever you are right now. I’d get a thousand miles away, somewhere deep.”

  27

  S enn-Rae knew how to use her body, her incredible body, so taut, so perfect, so unashamed, so willing, so everything. She knew how to build a storm inside a man and make it rage; and not just for a few minutes, for a time that got lost in time. Wilde somehow survived the whole thing, rolled over on his back and said, “Damn.”

  Senn-Rae laid her head on his chest.

  “Double damn.”

  Five minutes later they were dressed and headed out into the black Denver nightscape. Wilde learned something this afternoon, namely that Natalie Levine’s house was adrift in a sea of nosy neighbors. The time to do what needed to be done was now, in the netherworld that followed the stroke of twelve.

  The house was dark and sealed tight.

  Wilde worked the backdoor lock until it made that little click he was waiting for.

  The knob turned.

  They entered.

  They were in the kitchen, a place of unimportance. Wilde wasted no time there and headed for the living room. He closed all the window coverings then fired up a small flashlight.

  “What are we looking for exactly?” Senn-Rae asked.

  The sexy little dress was gone, traded for stalking clothes—pants, shirt and shoes, all black. Wilde wore his suit. It smelled like a cigar-infested forest fire that someone tried to put out with wine and sweat, thanks to the club.

  What were they looking for?

  “We’ll know it when we see it,” Wilde said.

  Then he saw something that got his attention.

  It was a photograph of two women with their arms around each other, friends to the end, one blond and one raven. Both were drop-dead stunning.

  “One of these must be Natalie,” Wilde said.

  “Right.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Why?”

  “Because neither of these two girls are the dead pinup girl.”

  There were other photos.

  The common denominator was the blond.

  The blond was Natalie Levine.

  The others were friends.

  “She’s definitely not the girl from the boxcar,” Wilde said.

  “Let’s get out of here then,” Senn-Rae said.

  Something made Wilde pause, he wasn’t sure what, but something. It also made him pull out the Camels and light up.

  “What are you doing?” Senn-Rae said.

  Wilde sat down on the couch and leaned back.

  “Smoking.”

  Then he realized what made him pause.

  “This girl’s not the one from the boxcar, but she’s just as pretty,” he said. “She’s pinup quality.”

  Senn-Rae wrinkled her forehead.

  “So?”

  “So, I think that means something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s keep looking around.”

  DAY FOUR

  June 12

  Thursday

  28

  A knock on the hotel door Thursday morning pulled Fallon out of a deep sleep. She concentrated to make sure she wasn’t dreaming then felt her chest tighten. The police? Who else knew she was here?—nobody, that’s who. She swung a naked body out of bed, said “Hold on,” and slipped into pants and a blouse. On the other side of the door was the last person she expected—James Jundee, the lawyer, dressed in a charcoal suit with an expensive hang. He held two cups of coffee in his hand and handed her one.

  “Ready?”

  Ready?

  Ready for what?

  Then she remembered.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you. You’re late.”

  He smiled.

  “If you say so.”

  “Can you give me thirty more seconds?”

  “Sure.”

  She headed for the bathroom, took a speed shower and emerged five minutes later her hair hanging heavy and wet. “Voila.”

  “Indeed.”

  They headed over to 16th Street and hit the department stores, buying an expensive gray pantsuit, a fluffy white blouse, a blue scarf, and black leather shoes—all conservative, all classy. By the time they were done, Fallon’s hair was dry and combed and soft rouge lipstick moistened her lips.

  Jundee eyed her up and down.

  “Perfect.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ten minutes later they were in an elevator ascending to the tenth floor of the Daniels & Fisher Tower, which housed Denver’s second-largest law firm, Connors & Trench, LLC.

  Jundee’s office was a small interior one without a window.

  “This is what the closet of a first-year associate looks like,” he said.

  A black metal filing cabinet, a marked wooden desk and a swivel chair, that’s all there was and that’s all that would fit. Paper
s and files were everywhere, stacked on one another to the point of teetering.

  “You actually bring clients in here?”

  “Are you kidding? It would scare them to death. That’s what the conference rooms are for.”

  Okay.

  Understood.

  They took the stairs up to the eleventh floor and walked down a spacious corridor lined with western landscape oil paintings.

  Captivating stuff.

  At the end of the hall was a door, a stately door built of oak, with a window. The glass was stenciled with PARKER TRENCH. Jundee rapped lightly then headed in. The office was everything his wasn’t.

  Spacious.

  Views.

  Ornate.

  A man looked up from behind a car-sized desk in the middle of the room. He focused on Jundee for a heartbeat, said “James,” then turned his attention on Fallon. His face was rough and manly, his chest was big and his forearms were muscular. He was about thirty-seven, with thick brown hair, slightly disheveled, and eyes that looked like they could be the meanest in the world or the kindest. Right now they were the latter.

  “Parker,” Jundee said. “I’d like you to meet Fallon Leigh. I think she’s the person you’ve been looking for. She’s from New Mexico and grew up speaking Spanish as much as English.”

  “Is that true?”

  Fallon nodded.

  “It’s no big deal,” she said. “Everyone down there’s bilingual.”

  “Can you write Spanish too?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, impressed, and shook her hand.

  “I’m Parker Trench,” he said. “The firm’s going to open a branch in Mexico City. Have you ever been there?”

  “I have,” she said. “Twice.”

  Trench looked at Jundee and said, “Where’d you find her?”

  “In the street.”

  Trench wrinkled his brow.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Someone hit her with a car last night,” Jundee said.

  “Who?”

  “Some Indian.”

  “An Indian?”

  “Right. He took off.”

  Trench shook his head.

  “That’s wrong.”

  Fallon jumped in. “It was my fault, I walked out in front of him.”

  Trench frowned.

  “Still, he didn’t know if you were okay or not. He shouldn’t have left the scene.” A beat, then, “Okay, clearly it’s fate that you didn’t get hurt and fate that you’re here. I’ve argued with fate before and it didn’t end up pretty. I’m not going to do it again.”

  “Does that mean I’m hired?”

  He nodded.

  “It does.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Wow.”

  “How do you say that in Spanish?”

  “Jcaray.”

  29

  I f Visible Moon was alive it wasn’t by much. Whoever had her would kill her sooner or later if he hadn’t done so already. The chance of Mojag actually bumping into the guy on the streets was infinitesimal. Theoretically it could happen but the likelihood was the size of a pinhead.

  Visible Moon deserved more than a pinhead.

  Shade wasn’t a hunter.

  She was a good CIA agent but not a hunter.

  Worse, she had nothing to go on even if she was a hunter. She knew a few things, but not many.

  The guy was a white man.

  He was in his late 20’s.

  He had a gray suit.

  He was attractive.

  He was strong.

  He drank Coors.

  He had a big black car, shiny under the dust.

  Other than that, Shade had nothing.

  She could pass the guy a thousand times on the street, or sit next to him a thousand times in a bar, and not know it was him.

  She needed help.

  It would be risky to get someone else involved but there was no alternative.

  She didn’t have time to be risk-free.

  She took a shower, headed down to registration and hung back until the man behind the counter was alone. He was bald and chubby but had a smile that took up half his face.

  Shade leaned in.

  “I’m looking for a private investigator. Do you know any good ones?”

  He did.

  He did indeed.

  “Jack Wilde,” the man said. “He’s got a seedy office down on Larimer but don’t let it fool you.”

  “Do you know him? Personally?”

  “No but he’s got a reputation. You want a number?”

  She tilted her head.

  “No but I’ll take an address.”

  The man wrote it down.

  “Just head down 17th until you get to Larimer. Take a left and go for one-and-a half blocks, just past 16th.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “This conversation is just between us.”

  “Absolutely.”

  She gave him her best smile and patted his hand.

  “Thanks again.”

  She walked across the lobby towards the revolving doors.

  His eyes were on her ass.

  She could feel the burn.

  Outside, the city was buzzing even now at only eight-fifteen in the morning. She stopped at a crowded place called the Down Towner for coffee, orange juice and toast, then called Kent Harvin from a payphone to see if things had gotten themselves sorted out.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, I don’t know exactly what you had in your apartment, but they found it last night.”

  “There was nothing there.”

  Silence.

  “If they found something, then someone planted it there,” she added. “Someone’s setting me up.”

  “Who?”

  She didn’t know.

  Harvin exhaled.

  “I don’t know where you are, but they think you’re in Denver,” he said. “They’re sending someone there to hunt you down.” A pause. “Shade, I love you like a daughter, you know that. If you got yourself in over your head, I can forgive you. But they can’t. They won’t. My advice to you, both as your boss and your friend, is to go deep right now, this second. If you’re in Denver, get the hell out of there. If you’re somewhere else, get out of there too. Go somewhere where you’re not and don’t leave a trail. Just disappear.”

  She retreated in thought.

  “Kent, I need you to believe me. I didn’t do anything wrong. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Like what?”

  “Find out who’s setting me up,” she said.

  30

  W ilde unlocked his office Thursday morning and tossed his hat towards the rack as he stepped through the door. It was off by a mile, heading for a window which should have been closed but wasn’t. A woman sitting behind his desk caught it in midair just before it flew out.

  She tossed it back to him.

  “Try again.”

  He did.

  It was low, hit the pole and dropped to the floor.

  The woman was a bombshell with raven hair.

  “Two questions,” Wilde said. “Who are you? And how’d you get in?”

  She studied him.

  “You don’t look like what I pictured.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good.”

  He headed for the coffee maker and found that it was already fired up, with a half-pot gone and an equal amount left. He filled a cup and took a noisy slurp.

  “It looks like you’ve been here a while.”

  She nodded.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I behaved myself. I didn’t snoop around or anything.”

  “I did leave the door locked, didn’t I?”

  “You did. I didn’t want to wait on the street. Are you mad?”

  He shook his head.

  “You made me c
offee,” he said.

  The woman got a serious look on her face.

  “You’re not the first PI I visited this morning. I stopped by the office of a guy named Peter Willoughby first. He didn’t work out.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t have what it takes.” A pause, then, “You do.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I just can.”

  “It’s in the way I toss my hat, isn’t it?”

  She smiled.

  “That’s it.”

  Then she got serious.

  “There’s a Navajo woman named Tehya who got murdered and scalped at a desert bar down in New Mexico. It happened Monday night. The bar was on reservation land, meaning the local police aren’t doing any kind of investigation.”

  Wilde made a face.

  “Scalped?”

  “Right.”

  “As in someone cut the top of her head off?”

  “Right.”

  “Damn, that’s sick,” he said. “I’ve never even heard of such a thing happening except for in the old days.”

  The woman went to the window, looked down and then turned. “The bar was being worked solo that night by another Navajo woman named Visible Moon, age twenty-two. She hasn’t been seen or heard from since that night.”

  “What are you saying, that she did it and ran off?”

  “No, not in a million years. I’m saying she got taken.”

  “By who?”

  “By the same man who scalped Tehya,” the woman said. “Visible Moon is still alive.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I can feel her,” the woman said. “She’s my half-sister. We have the same mother but different fathers.”

  Wilde tapped two Camels out of a pack, handed one to the woman and lit them up.

  He blew smoke.

  “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  “Sorry, it’s Shade. Shade de Laurent.” She walked over, took his hand and squeezed. “Please say you’ll help me find her.”

  He chewed on it.

  He was already consumed with Senn-Rae’s case, not to mention Senn-Rae herself. This new woman was too attractive. She had the potential to confuse him.

  “Please,” she said.

  He hesitated.

  “New Mexico’s a long way off.”