“Clear as crystal, sir.”

Morwood grunted. Then he slid off the desk, signaling the end of the meeting, and Corrie rose as well.

“At our weekly meeting, I’d like you to present your case to the office. It’s got some unusual aspects to it the other agents would be interested in hearing about.” He paused. “And if she learns anything of relevance, feel free to bring Dr. Kelly in to talk about that gold cross.”

14

SPECIALIST BRAD HUCKEY, head of the Albuquerque Evidence Response Team, stepped out of the ERT van and transferred his shades from his Dallas Cowboys cap to the bridge of his nose in order to survey the area without getting blinded. The ERT photographer, Milt Alfieri, and a second crime scene investigator, Don Ketterman, climbed out and stood beside him, looking around.

“Wow,” said Alfieri. “Could be a movie set.”

The special agent in charge of the case was arriving in a separate vehicle, a Jeep Cherokee belonging to the Socorro County sheriff’s Office. It parked to one side, and the agent—it could only be the agent—got out of the passenger side, the sheriff getting out the other, wearing a big silver star.

Huckey could hardly believe his eyes. He’d never seen an agent so young. What the hell was the FBI coming to, hiring women like this who probably couldn’t do five push-ups? One of those affirmative action hires, for sure. But at least she wasn’t hard to look at.

He turned to Alfieri and gave a low whistle. “Check that out.”

The special agent came over, pale skin and brown hair in a short cut, along with the sheriff, who looked almost as young as she was. One of his ears was bandaged. He was a real piece of work, too—sporting six-guns on both hips.

The agent stuck out her hand, which—he noticed—was missing the end of one finger. “Corinne Swanson.”

“Brad Huckey.”

“Milt Alfieri.”

“Don Ketterman.”

“Homer Watts.”

Homer. What a name. Huckey almost expected to see a piece of straw sticking out of the guy’s bandaged ear. Looking at those guns, Huckey wondered if he’d heard of the internet. Or even electricity.

They all stood around in the sun shaking hands while ravens circled and croaked overhead.

“Thanks for coming all this way,” said Swanson. “Not exactly the best road in the state.”

“I’ll say,” said Huckey. “So where’s the crime scene?”

She pointed to a ruined building just beyond the town. “The body was found in the basement. We’re not sure yet if it’s actually a crime scene, though.”

Huckey’s two associates began unloading their equipment. “Any idea what the building was?” he asked.

“Pretty sure it was a house of ill repute,” said Watts.

Huckey gave a laugh. “Not much of a whorehouse, if you ask me. So what’s the history of this town, Homer?”

Watts removed his cowboy hat, gave his brow a swipe with his forearm, and fitted it back on. “It was a hopping little place for a while, when the gold mine was producing. But then the gold started petering out; there was a cave-in with lots of victims, and the town was abandoned shortly afterward.”

“Victims, you say?”

“A dozen men. Trapped inside.”

Huckey nodded. He’d always had an amateur interest in gold mining. When this was over, it would probably be worth coming back here for a look-see. There might well be valuable antique or curio stuff here, ripe for the taking. And, given his day job, he was an expert at finding just that kind of shit. Take that old well, for example, in the shadow of what looked like the remains of a stable—people had no idea how many valuables got lost down a well. This one, of course, hadn’t seen a bucket in probably a hundred years.

They walked to the ruined whorehouse and stopped at the entrance to the basement. It was half-blocked with sand. Huckey crouched and looked in, shining a light around.

“Hey, Corinne,” he said, “give me the rundown here.”

Swanson crouched next to him. “The body was over there against the far wall,” she said. “You can see the excavated area. We’ve already removed and screened most of the sand.”

Huckey turned. “Don, let’s set up and rescreen it all—just in case.”

He grabbed a shovel and descended, Milt following. Ketterman handed down shovels, a saw, a sledgehammer, and a screen on a frame. Huckey unfolded the screen.

“You guys, just shovel all this shit from one side to the other, through the screen.”

Huckey pulled on a face mask and got to work, shoveling and tossing each shovelful through the screen. Dust rose up. He was damned glad it was a cool fall day; in the summer it would be hell down in that whorehouse basement. As the fine, dry sand fell through the screen, a bunch of stuff bounced up—broken bottles, cheap flatware, buttons, tobacco tins, nails—but it was all worthless, nothing contemporaneous

with the body.

Suddenly, a bone bounced off the screen.

“Whoa there,” said Huckey. He went over and picked it up, turning it over. “Look what we got here! A humerus!” He glanced over to where the FBI agent was watching them, at the cellar door. “Looks like you missed one,” he called up, waving the bone at her.