Jake must’ve come by early because the dogs weren’t around when I stepped onto the porch. I squinted at the sky. Another dreary day. The moist air seeped into my bones, and I shivered. Wet cold is worse than dry cold. I’d take winter in the high plains desert over winter in the supposed warmer clime of North Carolina. At least if it snowed, the dulled, gray, lifeless tones of late fall would be hidden beneath a blanket of white.
The parking lot at the tribal police station was nearly full-an odd occurrence this early in the morning on the rez. I remembered to put my FBI parking tag on the dash. Hopefully, that wouldn’t earn me a tire iron to the windows or headlights.
Inside, a dozen or so people crowded around the receptionist’s desk, arguing about wrongful incarceration of a family member. I dodged fighting kids and skirted a hefty woman in a wheelchair who was blocking the door. After winding my way through teetering boxes in the hallways, any calmness evaporated once I reached the conference room. I hated that I wanted Agent Turnbull here. I hadn’t dealt with the tribal cops much, and I was still finding my footing as to who was in charge in what circumstance.
Officer Ferguson was kicked back, with her boots on the table and a file folder obscuring most of her face. Those boots dropped with a thump when she saw me. “Sorry, Agent.”
“No problem.” I spied a coffeepot and poured myself a cup.
“Is your partner coming today?” she asked.
No surprise she’d be asking about Shay. The man’s amazing looks could’ve landed him on the cover of a historical western romance, where the scantily dressed, brave Brave held the virginal white girl in his big strong arms. “Special Agent Turnbull is not my partner. He’s my supervisor. So I assume he’ll show.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” She gave me a curious look. “Do you think the reason we’re interviewing Arlette’s friends is because we’re women?”
Oddly enough, that comment relaxed me, because I’d had the same thought. “Probably. But I’ll take a dozen teenage girls in interview any day over one strung-out male meth head.” I sat across from her and sipped my coffee. “Do you know these friends of Arlette’s?”
She shook her head and slid me a file folder.
I skimmed the lone document. “Where’s the other girl’s statement?”
“That’s all we’ve got.”
I bit back a comment about the seemingly haphazard treatment of documents at the tribal PD. When I glanced up, I noticed the curtain to what I’d assumed was a window was now open. It wasn’t a window but a two-way glass to a viewing room. That’s where Turnbull would be.