She dug through her black bag for her cell phone, dialed Laola, and asked her to check with the Wyoming Department of Environmental Quality for any authorizations given to Baider Industries to explore a diamond deposit in central Wyoming. Then she told the secretary to call Adam Elkman, the natural resources director on the reservation, and set up a phone interview as soon as possible. She would ask him if the company had requested permission to explore anywhere on the reservation. There was every possibility that Nathan Baider was lying. The company had some interest in the area. Otherwise, why had Vince Lewis tried to talk to her?
She stepped out onto Stout Street, dialing Steve Clark’s number as she went. It surprised her when the detective picked up; she’d expected an answering service.
“I have to talk to you,” she said, weaving through the business suits walking along the sidewalk.
“How about lunch?” There was an eagerness in the detective’s voice that gave her a stab of discomfort. “One o’clock?” He named a restaurant in the Pavilions.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
13
Diners jammed the restaurant on the Sixteenth Street Mall, an assemblage of business suits in earnest conversations. Vicky spotted Steve Clark in a booth against the far wall. She waved away the maître d’ and started through the maze of tables, snatching pieces of conversations as she went: . . . stock options? . . . the new partner . . . close the deal.
Steve caught her eye and jumped to his feet with the quick agility of a cowboy dismounting a horse. He was dressed in what she used to call his uniform: blue blazer over light blue shirt, subdued detective tie, tan slacks. Smiling at her. The laugh lines deepened at the corners of his eyes. One hand crunched a red napkin.
“You look beautiful.” He waited until she’d settled across from him before resuming his own seat. The intense look in his eyes made her uncomfortable, aware of herself: the shoulder-length black hair, the dark, almond-shaped eyes, the tiny bump at the top of her nose—the Arapaho bump—the dark skin that had caused a few heads to follow her as she’d come through the restaurant.
A waiter in a white coat was sweeping about the table—welcome, welcome—pouring ice water, delivering menus. The sounds of tinkling ice cut through the buzz of conversations from nearby tables. After they’d ordered—club sandwich, pasta salad—Steve said, “It’s good to have you back.”
“Good to be here.” The words rang hollow and superficial to her ears. She’d agreed to lunch; she hadn’t considered that he might misconstrue her intentions. It had been a dozen years since they were undergraduates, two outsiders bumping into each other on the CU-Denver campus. He, fresh from a stint with the navy SEALs, and she, fresh from the reservation, the ink still wet on a divorce decree and two children back home with her mother.
“Here’s to us,” he said, lifting the water glass.
“Us?” There had never been “us.”
“We’re having lunch again. Just like old times.”
“Here’s to lunch,” she said, clinking his glass.
“What made you leave Lander?” he said after a moment. “The shooting?”
Vicky leaned against the back cushion and waited until the waiter had set the pasta in front of her, the sandwich in front of Steve, then grated Parmesan over her plate with a cheeriness that struck a discordant note in the muted atmosphere that had settled over the table.
“How did you know?” she said when the waiter moved away.
“Reports come into the department.” He shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich. After a moment he said, “Discharge of firearms resulting in death in the Rocky Mountain region. I snagged the report with your name in it.”
“The man was about to shoot a friend of mine,” she heard herself explaining. The same explanation she gave herself in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep.
“Certainly justifiable, Vicky. Anyone would have done the same. Give yourself some time.” He held her eyes a moment before taking another bite of the sandwich.
Vicky tried the pasta. It was lukewarm, with a congealed buttery taste. Finally she said, “What have you found out about the Lewis homicide?”
“What makes you so sure it’s homicide?” He sounded mildly amused.
“I saw it happen, Steve.”
“We don’t know yet what caused the accident.”
“I have a theory.”
He set his sandwich down and regarded her. “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Listen, Steve,” she began. “I believe it’s possible that Baider Industries has located a diamond deposit on the reservation.”