By the time I’d navigated my way into the break room, I’d decided against a cup of coffee.
No sign of Carsten.
Agent Turnbull’s shoulders rested against the door frame as he spoke to Officer Spotted Bear. My anxiety kicked in. In the military I’d stand off to the side, at rest, waiting to approach a superior officer until I received acknowledgment. Protocol wasn’t defined within the FBI. So I hung back awkwardly, pretending to study the topographical map on the wall, splattered with dark splotches that looked like blood.
“Something you need, Gunderson?” Turnbull finally asked.
I faced him. “Just wondering what’s next on the agenda today?”
“Nothin’. But two of the victim’s friends scheduled interviews tomorrow.”
“Really? They volunteered?”
Turnbull gave me the assessing stare that signaled he was in senior agent mode. “Apparently. Why?”
“Didn’t you get the impression from Mrs. Elk Thunder that Arlette didn’t have any friends?”
“Adults know way less about what their kids are up to than they wanna admit.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “So are we done for the day?”
He sipped his coffee. “Yep. Looks like I’m the one with the long commute today, hey?”
Reverting to Indian speak. How… calculating of Special Agent Turnbull. Did he think the change in speech pattern gave the tribal cops the impression he was just another rez kid who’d made good? Please. He’d been raised in Flandreau. The Santee tribe had piles more money than the Minneconjou Sioux. “Can’t say I’m unhappy about being so close to home. I just needed to clarify if we’re meeting here tomorrow, and not at the VS offices.”
“Far as I know. Carsten is scheduled in court and won’t be assisting us with the interviews.”
“Thanks. Have a good evening, sir.”
He nodded and gave me his back, returning to his conversation with Officer Spotted Bear.
The wind sliced into me as I crossed the parking lot. The temperature must’ve dropped twenty degrees in the last few hours. Pewter clouds hung low, heavy with the threat of snow.
I climbed into my new-albeit used-Ford F-150. My dad’s old truck had finally crapped out and had been relegated to feed-truck status on the ranch. As I zipped down the black ribbon of empty highway, darkness already obliterating the foggy tinge of daylight, I sang along with Little Big Town about living in the boondocks, realizing I didn’t want to go home. Dawson wouldn’t be there, which was a total fucking girly excuse for avoiding the place.
I hadn’t been in Clementine’s for a month, which might have actually been a new record for me, not counting the months I was out of town. But I wasn’t in the mood to chitchat with John-John or any of the regulars I had slung drinks for during my stint as a bartender. Lunch had been the last thing on my mind after I’d spent the morning at the crime scene. Now it was close to suppertime, and I was starved.