“Right.”

They moved through the rooms, pulling up floorboards and breaking through lathe and plaster in areas where something might be hidden. But there was nothing. Huckey didn’t like the way Swanson and Watts followed them around, monitoring what they were doing. And all this after having to get up at four in the morning, with a hangover no less, to get down here.

“Let’s check the shitter,” Huckey said.

It stood behind the ruins, a crooked rectangle against the blue sky. Ketterman went in with the Pulaski. With a few blows he knocked out the rotten foundation and toppled the thing like a tree, exposing a hole below, partly filled with sand.

“Gotta dig it out.”

With the screen set up, they started digging. No actual crap was left, just sand and dirt, but as they shoveled, some interesting things appeared on the screen—some coins, a bunch of broken whiskey bottles, a pair of glasses—and then, suddenly, the gleam of gold.

“Hey, check this out!” Ketterman held it up while Alfieri photographed. It was a single Indian head gold piece.

Swanson and Watts came over.

“From 1908,” said Huckey, taking it. “Looks like someone dropped it in the shit pile.”

“We should put that into evidence,” said Swanson, “even though it’s probably not connected to the body.”

Huckey put it in an evidence container and sealed it. Damn, he was going to come back here and really turn the place over. In fact, might be a good idea to pull back on the official search in order to leave some good stuff for later. He wished to hell he hadn’t searched the shitter with all these people around.

“Now for the rest of the town. We can do this quickly—and, out of respect for your wishes, as gently as possible.”

“Thank you,” said the sheriff.

Huckey didn’t answer. “Show us where the mule skeleton and saddle were found.”

Swanson brought them over to the livery stables. Huckey could see where the mule bones had been dug from the ground. They set up a screen, and Ketterman began shoveling all around and tossing the dirt on the screen. More useless crap showed up, along with some bones.

Huckey held one up. “Another sheep?” he asked Swanson with a grin.

“No, that’s a mule.”

He tossed the bone away. “At least you got that one right.”

They went through the rest of the town from one end to the other, photographing every room and searching the more obvious places, but nothing of note came to light. This time, Huckey made sure they didn’t look too hard.

They ended up back at the van. Huckey consulted the search order. They were coming to the interesting part: the search of the gold mine below the mesa.

“Says here,” Huckey read from the ERT outline—the one Swanson herself had written—“that the body was found with climbing and rappelling equipment. So they think he may have been down in the mine, or planning to go down. Also says here … Wait a minute. I’m going down with Swanson?”

“That’s what it says,” the girl said.

“Who the hell decided that?”

“I did. You did bring the gear, right?”

Huckey stared. “Sure, I brought the gear, but I thought Don and I were going to use it. You know how to rappel?”

Swanson nodded.

Huckey tried to hide his annoyance. “Well, I’ll be damned. Okay, let’s get the gear and have at it.”

15

THE GOLD CROSS lay in a plastic tray lined with black velvet, below a stereo zoom microscope set at low power. Nora was moving the stage around, examining the cross. Orlando Chavez entered, his gray hair swept dramatically back from his patrician face, tumbling almost to his shoulders. A tweed jacket and a bolo tie with a chunk of turquoise heavy enough to sink a body announced him as both a professor and a westerner. Chavez was the Institute’s expert in Spanish colonial history, and he was by far Nora’s favorite person in the entire place. She had known him ever since she was a graduate student working on her dissertation.

“My, my,” he said, smacking his lips as if contemplating a beautiful piece of cake. “How is it you’re always in the thick of every ruckus around here? Let’s have a look.”

Nora yielded the eyepieces. He peered in, bushy eyebrows moving comically as he stared. Nora waited as he moved the stage around, examining the cross with minute attention.

“May I turn it over?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll handle it. The FBI gave me strict protocols.” She pulled on nitrile gloves, turned the cross over, and peeled the gloves off, dropping them in the trash. She hated wearing those gloves.

More minutes of staring. Finally, Chavez eased back from the eyepieces, blinking, and expelled a breath of air.

“What do you think?”

“Well …” He fitted his thick black-framed glasses on once more and rolled back the chair. “Remarkable.”

Nora waited. Chavez always liked to draw things out.

“Based on the style, technique, workmanship, design, and so forth, I’d say this cross was made in Mexico City and brought up into New Mexico via the Camino Real for use in a mission church. It probably dates back to before the Pueblo Revolt of 1680.”

“Any evidence it’s stolen property? That was something the FBI agent wanted to know.”