Day of the Dead - J. A. Jance [98]
Lani laughed at that. Nana Dahd had died on Lani’s seventh birthday. She vividly remembered the old Indian woman and her many lessons, all of them taught gently, but with the firm expectation that Lani would behave politely and respectfully.
“Maybe that’s where you come in, Lani,” Brandon said, rising and taking his aching hip and knee into the house. “You’re the closest thing we have to Nana Dahd around here. Isn’t that the way it works with the Desert People? Don’t aunts and uncles do the disciplining?”
Lani laughed. “That’s what I’ve heard, too. The only problem is, Tyler Ladd isn’t a Tohono O’odham kid, and I’m not sure his mom would want me to turn him into one.”
Picking up Fat Crack’s leather pouch and clutching it to her, Lani Walker followed her father into the house.
Twenty-One
Brandon and Diana were both sleeping soundly the next morning when Damsel went nuts. “What’s up, Damn Dog?” Brandon mumbled sleepily. Just then the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” he told Diana as he hopped out of bed and pulled on clothing.
He and Damsel reached the front door together as the doorbell rang again. Brandon used the security peephole to see who it was. Emma Orozco stood there, leaning on her walker. In the background her son-in-law, Sam Tashquinth, was hauling something unwieldy out of the back of his pickup and lugging it toward the gate. As he entered, Brandon saw Sam’s load was swathed in plastic garbage bags that had been duct-taped together.
Shutting Damsel inside, Brandon stepped out on the porch. “Good morning, Emma,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Bring it,” Emma said to her son-in-law, pointing to a spot next to her on the porch.
With a relieved sigh, Sam Tashquinth dropped his burden where she had indicated, while the old woman turned back to Brandon. “She’s here,” Emma said. “Roseanne’s baby.”
“You dug her up?”
Emma shrugged. “To ask permission we’d have to go before the tribal council. It would take too long. After dark last night, Sam and my grandson did it.”
In terms of speed, taking shovels in hand without waiting for permission got the job done. In terms of establishing a chain of evidence, Emma’s self-appointed grave robbing was entirely wrong. Had Brandon been a sworn police officer, his reaction would have been tempered by evidentiary considerations. As part of TLC, he was conflicted by the need to get results for survivors while, at the same time, being able to hold someone accountable in a court of law.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure it was a difficult decision.”
“I want you to find Roseanne’s killer,” Emma said determinedly. “Even if he’s dead, I want to know he can’t ever do this again.”
“Yes,” Brandon said. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Do you want me to leave it here, Mr. Walker?” Sam Tashquinth asked.
“My Suburban’s in the garage. We’ll put it there. I’ll go get the key.” He turned to Emma. “Would you like to come inside? My wife would be glad to make coffee…”
“No,” Emma said at once. “Thank you. We should go. Sam has to get to work.”
Brandon hurried inside. Diana was in the kitchen making coffee. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Emma’s out on the porch. They dug up Roseanne’s baby’s coffin. It’s on the porch, too.”
“They dug up the baby?” Diana looked appalled. “Why?”
Brandon removed the car keys from their pegboard hook. “We’re hoping DNA can identify the baby’s father—and help us find Roseanne’s killer.”
“What should I do?” Diana asked, collecting herself. “Invite them in? Offer coffee?”
“No,” Brandon said. “Emma told me they have to go back to Sells as soon as we load the casket into the Suburban.”
When he went to help, Brandon was surprised by the weight of the casket. It was heavy enough that it took both men to heft it into the Suburban. The fetus itself would have been tiny. “Why such a big casket?” Brandon asked as he shut the luggage doors.
Sam Tashquinth shrugged philosophically.