"What happened last night?" Father John persisted.

"Nothing happened." The other priest spit out the words. "I called one of Mary Ann's friends. She came over, and I stayed until the friend got her calmed down."

Father John walked over and sat down at his desk. His a.s.sistant was lying, and the man wasn't any better at it than dozens of people he'd counseled, dozens of penitents in the confessional-lying to themselves first, hoping that if someone else believed the lies, then they could also believe, as if the believing would make them true.

He glanced up. "Take whatever time you need. I'll be here when you get back, should you want to talk."

Fifteen minutes later-he'd just taken a spoonful of the oatmeal Elena had set before him-Father John heard the front door slam and, a moment after that, tires crunching the wet gravel on Circle Drive.

"Well, I told you so." Elena plunged a plate into the soapy water in the sink, disappointment etched in the set of her shoulders. Father John understood. Don Ryan wasn't just another priest in a pa.s.sing parade. Here for a few weeks, a year, then moving on. He was . . . well, he'd seemed to like the place.

"What makes you think Father Don won't be back?" He heard the doubt creeping into his own voice.

"I told you before. He was never here," Elena said after a moment. "His spirit was somewhere else."

Father John finished the oatmeal. Considering. So many priests through the years. Elena knew. He was going to have to cut back on the summer programs, limit them to what he could handle. Until the Provincial found another a.s.sistant. He would be even busier than he'd imagined. Which meant he had even less time than he'd thought to convince Detective Slinger that Duncan Grover was murdered.

He thanked Elena for breakfast and asked her to tell anyone who stopped by that he'd be back later. Then he headed down the hallway, grabbed his jacket and cowboy hat, and left for Lander.

12.

The Equitable Building spread over a quarter block at the corner of Seventeenth and Stout streets, ma.s.sive stone towers with marble-paved floors and 1890s Tiffany stained-gla.s.s windows. Vicky found Baider Industries on the directory and rode the bronze-trimmed elevator up several floors.

She'd called this morning to make an appointment with Nathan Baider. The founder of Baider Industries may have turned the company over to his son, but the old man was still calling the shots, Wes had said. If anyone knew why Vince Lewis had wanted to see her, she suspected it would be Nathan Baider.

"Mr. Baider's schedule is full today." A woman's voice on the phone.

"Tell Mr. Baider I witnessed Vince Lewis's murder," she'd said.

"Murder!" A gasp burst over the line. "Mr. Lewis was in an unfortunate-"

She'd cut in: "Tell Mr. Baider what I said."

After a long pause the woman's voice had returned. "He'll see you right away."

Vicky emerged into another marble-paved vestibule and let herself through the gla.s.s doors across from the elevator. Instantly she was enveloped in the hushed silence of dark blue walls, cl.u.s.ters of chairs, and polished tables. Large photographs lined the walls on either side of a window that framed a view of the parking garage across the street.

"May I help you?" An attractive woman somewhere between thirty and fifty, with stylishly cut blond hair that brushed the collar of her red suit jacket, rose from behind the mahogany desk.

Vicky handed her a business card, which the woman studied for a couple of seconds, snapping the card between her red-tipped fingers. Finally she set the card down and said, "Wait here," letting herself through the door on the right.

Vicky strolled over to an arrangement of photographs behind the desk, western landscapes with white-peaked mountains and sunshine streaking the endless plains. Above the landscapes, the clear blue sky.

On each photo, small white arrows pointed to barely perceptible disruptions in the earth. She leaned closer, studying the areas beneath the arrows: gouges, clumps of buildings, roads flung through the wilderness, trucks, and bulldozers. She realized the photos had been shot from a great distance-from airplanes, maybe even satellites.

Beneath each photo was an engraved gold plate: CRIPPLE CREEK MINE, CANADA; JENNISON MINE, CANADA; and three mines in Wyoming-LEMLE, BRIDGER, KIMBERLY.

She crossed to the opposite wall. Here the landscape photos were replaced by photos of various-sized diamonds shimmering in the camera's flash. On the bottom frames were the identifying gold plates: THREE-CARAT YELLOW DIAMOND, KIMBERLY MINE, 1992. NINE-CARAT WHITE DIAMOND, BRIDGER MINE, 1993. SIX-CARAT BLUE DIAMOND, LEMLE MINE, 1996.

She strolled over to the gla.s.s-topped display case beneath the window. Flung out like grains of sand on a black velvet bed were dozens of diamonds. White, yellow, blue. Some as tiny as pinp.r.i.c.ks, others as large as pebbles, all reflecting back the light and the colors in the room.

"They're synthetic."

Vicky swung around and faced the woman in the red suit.

"Synthetic?" She glanced again at the fiery stones. Was nothing what it seemed? Was everything a symbol of another reality?

The woman began explaining. The company could hardly keep millions of dollars in diamonds in the building. She gave a sharp laugh. What would the insurance company say? The stones were excellent cubic zirconia that could even fool a jeweler.

"The real diamonds are here." She gestured toward the photos behind her. "Baider Industries has an international reputation for the quality of the diamonds we produce. Notice all the gems have the four Cs required of excellent diamonds-color, cut, clarity, and estimable carat size. We've produced the largest finished diamond found in North America: fifteen-point-six carats." Slowly she took her eyes away. "Mr. Baider will see you now."

Vicky followed the woman down a corridor as wide as a small room. From beyond the closed doors came the m.u.f.fled sounds of voices, a sharp burst of laughter.

"Mr. Baider has an important meeting in ten minutes." The woman paused at the last door. "Please be brief."

She ushered Vicky into a rectangular-shaped office that resembled the reception area with similar chairs and polished tables arranged around green plush carpeting, similar photos of landscapes and diamonds on the walls.

Nathan Baider sat behind a perfectly cleared desk, hands folded on the shining surface. He looked more fit than she remembered, but she'd only spoken with him briefly at the emergency room. His cheeks and hands were sunburned and freckled, his gray hair tousled, as if he'd just come indoors. He wore a blue shirt and a dark tie somewhat askew, knotted in a hurry, she thought.

"Sit down," he said in a gravelly voice accustomed to obedience. The pale blue eyes didn't leave her as she crossed the office. She took the chair nearest to the desk. A few feet away, leaning against the wall, was a red-and-gold golf bag with the putter jammed halfway down. A minute earlier, she guessed, Nathan Baider had been putting a golf ball over the green carpet.

"Thank you for seeing me," she began.

He cut her off: "What's this about Vince being murdered?"

Vicky said, "I saw it happen. The black Camry deliberately ran him down."

Baider drew in a long breath that expanded the fronts of the blue shirt. "About thirty other people saw it happen, Detective Clark says, and n.o.body else calls it murder." He allowed the word to settle between them, his eyes steady on hers. "It was an accident, Ms. Holden. Some drunk weaving down the street, couldn't tell the curb from a white line. Hit-and-run, that's what it was."

"I was on my way to meet Mr. Lewis when he was killed," Vicky hurried on. There was little time. She half expected the secretary to appear and announce the meeting was over.

"Yes, yes." The man waved one hand over the desk. "So you informed me after the accident. If Vince made an appointment with you, it must have been personal business." He shrugged. "In any case, it no longer matters."

"It was a matter of life and death," Vicky said. "Someone killed him to keep him from talking to me."

Baider was quiet a long moment. He seemed to be staring at some image behind his eyes. "A very large a.s.sumption. What's your evidence, Ms. Holden?"

"Lewis's own words." She was thinking how she would demolish a witness on the stand for offering such evidence. How can you be certain of what Mr. Lewis meant? She hurried on: "Lewis's job was to locate new diamond deposits, am I correct?" Slowly now, feeling her way, groping to express the idea that had been nagging at her since she'd learned that Vince Lewis was dead. "Is it possible he located a diamond deposit on the Wind River Reservation?" It sounded preposterous, even as she spoke.

Baider shook his head. "You're correct about Lewis's job. We're always looking for kimberlite pipes that may be diamondiferous. Maybe you know the world market can no longer depend upon diamonds mined in Africa. Deposits in places like Angola, Congo, and Sierra Leone have been taken over by rebels. They've been flooding the world market with so-called conflict diamonds to finance their b.l.o.o.d.y wars. d.a.m.n conflict diamonds amounted to seven hundred million dollars a year until the industry got a certification program. Now diamonds traded on the world market gotta have certificates proving they didn't come from rebel-held mines. Not as easy as it sounds."

He shook his head and held up one hand, like a teacher about to make his point. "Much easier to certify diamonds mined in the United States. When we find a pipe, we file a claim. We have dozens of claims on the southern Wyoming border. The area is rich in diamond deposits. None in central Wyoming, I can a.s.sure you."

Slowly the man levered himself out of his chair. "I'm sure Lewis's accident was a great shock to you, Ms. Holden. I understand the urgency of your desire to find an explanation, but take some advice from a man who's knocked around a bit. Accidents happen. Sometimes n.o.body's to blame. Let it go, and put your mind to rest."

The door swung open and the woman in the red suit leaned into the office. "Your meeting, Mr. Baider," she said.

Vicky stood up, reached across the desk, and shook the man's hand. "Thank you for your time," she said. A waste of her own time, she was thinking. If what Baider said was true, there were no claims filed on the res, no records of any deposits. She was chasing phantoms. And yet, Vince Lewis had died trying to tell her something that affected her people.

She walked back through the office, the secretary's footsteps knocking behind her, and rode the elevator down. As the bronze doors parted, she spotted a younger version of Nathan Baider crossing the lobby-same height and build, same ruddy cheeks, tousled black hair that would be gray in a few years. Roz Baider, she guessed. The man was in a deep conversation with the stocky man beside him.

Suddenly Baider turned toward her. There was a flash of recognition in the man's eyes, and she wondered if Nathan had told him about her. For half a second she thought he might approach her. Instead, he resumed the conversation with the other man. They swung past a planter and walked hurriedly to the entrance, wing tips tapping out a staccato rhythm on the marble.

It struck her that neither Nathan Baider nor his son wanted her to know why Vince Lewis had called, but she had her own theory, and that theory was beginning to take on a strength beyond its likelihood. For a brief moment she allowed herself to wish that John O'Malley were here. They could sit down together; she could test her theory against his logic. She considered calling him, then dismissed the idea. Not talking to him had made it seem easier to be so far away.

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 a.s.semblage of business suits in earnest conversations. Vicky spotted Steve Clark in a booth against the far wall. She waved away the maitre d' and started through the maze of tables, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 b.u.mp at the top of her nose-the Arapaho b.u.mp-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 b.u.mping 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 gla.s.s.

"Us?" There had never been "us."

"We're having lunch again. Just like old times."

"Here's to lunch," she said, clinking his gla.s.s.

"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 b.u.t.tery 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."

"Diamonds?" The amus.e.m.e.nt had changed into surprise. "That would have made the headlines."

"This is still the Old West," she said, keeping her voice low. "Prospectors still jump claims the way they used to jump the old gold and silver claims. Nathan Baider knows how the game is played. If his people located a new deposit, he'd keep it secret until he was ready to file a claim."

Steve pulled his mouth into a tight line of disapproval. A second pa.s.sed. "You want me to buy a theory that Vince Lewis was killed because he was about to blow the whistle?"

"It makes sense." She struggled to ignore the questions in his eyes and hurried on before the theory she'd been constructing collapsed. "Baider could be waiting for a ruling on a very important case that's in the federal courts, Navajo Nation v. Lexcon." She explained the district court ruling. How the tribes didn't necessarily own the methane gas on their lands. How the ruling was a wedge other companies could use to claim that tribes might not have total control of other natural resources on reservations. How Baider could claim the Arapahos and Shoshones on the Wind River Reservation didn't control any diamond deposits. She told him she was working on the appeal. The Navajos had to appeal. "Baider could be waiting to file a claim, hoping he won't have to pay royalties."

"If what you say is true"-the detective was shaking his head-"Lewis would come in for a share of the profits. Why blow the whistle?"

Vicky sat back against the booth. She didn't have the answer. She could feel the theory starting to crumble, as if the ground were giving way beneath her feet.

"Look," he said in a conciliatory tone, "you could be right. Maybe it was homicide. We won't know until we find the driver."

"What about the license?"

"Lifted from a Chevy van at the airport," he said. "Oldest trick in the book, Vicky. Some guy wants to cover his tracks, so he cruises the outlying lots. Security's not as close. Anybody knows his business can lift a pair of plates in about two minutes. Salesman got back from Florida and didn't know he was driving without plates until the state patrol pulled him over on I-70. You'd be surprised how many people drive out of lots without checking to see if they still have plates."

Vicky felt a little surge of excitement. "So, whoever killed Lewis went to a lot of trouble to make the car untraceable," she said. "Someone at Baider could have arranged for a killer to run Lewis down before our meeting. That explains why the Camry came out of nowhere. The killer was waiting somewhere down the block."

"Whoa, hold on there." Steve set his own cup down. Brown liquid sloshed into the saucer. "You're like an eighteen-wheeler runaway coming off the mountain. First rule in an investigation, don't get married to one theory. The guy driving the Camry could've lifted the plates for some other reason. A burglary, or a drug deal. His mind's on the big deal coming down when he jumps the curb and hits a pedestrian who happens to be Vince Lewis."