But she often wondered about the parts of Doc Robbins she didn't know, would likely never know. He was a sweet man, a kind man, and she would have liked a glimpse at the private man away from his morgue.

"Ain't it the truth?" she said, aware that she had been silent for too long, and he was looking at her in puzzlement.

"I won't waste your time, then. You wouldn't be here if there wasn't something I could do for you."

"Albert Robbins, talking to you is never a waste of time."

He performed a shallow bow. "Compliment accepted. I sense a 'but' lurking behind it somewhere, tough."

"But… there is something you can do for me."

"Name it."

She described Helena Cameron's skin color and what she had heard about Daria's, what Dr. BoulIet had told her of Daria's condition, the congestion of her heart, the lines on the Cameron women's fingernails, and the brittleness of Daria's hair and nails. Robbins listened quietly, nodding along from lime to time, one finger to his lips. "I don't know if it's some kind of a genetic condition or what," said Catherine. "Something passed from mother to daughter?"

"I do have an idea, but let me confirm something," he said. He went into his office and returned with a heavy volume.

"Do you want a hand with that?' Catherine asked. "Looks like it weighs a ton."

"The publishers of medical reference books rarely make a priority of concision," Doc Robbins said. "If one word is good, ten are better. But I've got it, thanks." He opened the book on one of the stainless steel counters and started flipping pages. Catherine watched his back, appreciating his efforts. He must have had better things to do. Like getting out of there and going home.

"Here we go."

"You found something?'

"I thought it was this but wanted to make sure. There's nothing worse than a doctor who doesn't double-check a diagnosis. Well, maybe there is, but not many things. Anyway, what you're describing sounds very much like selenium poisoning."

"Poisoning," Catherine echoed.

"That's correct, yes."

"Not a virus or anything like that. They're not actually ill."

"Not precisely, no. The only diagnosis I can think of that fits the symptoms you've described is selenium poisoning. Keep in mind that I haven't examined the patient myself, so it's obviously only a preliminary diagnosis. But I have some confidence that an exam would bear it out."

"Would their family doctor reach this same conclusion?"

"Not necessarily, at least not at first. A general practitioner would be most concerned about the heart and might, for a while, see the skin discoloration as jaundice, until the orange color became more pronounced. But it would take a while for anyone without forensic training to get to selenium poisoning."

"I thought maybe that was it," Catherine said. "But it's been years since we've encountered it, and I figure medical diagnoses are best left to the pros. Is selenium poisoning always fatal?"

"Usually, if it's not caught in time. Its effects can be reversed, as long as the patient isn't too far gone."

"Okay," she said. "Thanks, Doc. I have to go." Her shoes clicked across the morgue's tile floor as she hurried toward the exit.

She called Sam Vega on her way to her car. He answered on the second ring. "You're still working, too?" she asked.

"I am."

"Good. Meet me at the Cameron estate.'

"When?"

"Now. Or sooner."

"Sounds important. I'm on my way."

"It is," Catherine said. "I'll see you there."

She got into the car and jammed her key into the ignition. As she turned it, the engine roared to life.

She wondered if Ecklie's head would make that same noise when he heard about this.

At least she would have Vega along with her. He could report that she'd only had Helena Cameron's best interests in mind.

She even thought about calling Ecklie, briefly. But he would tell her not to go, and then they would waste time arguing.

Time that Helena Cameron might not be able to spare.

19

Keith Hyatt led Ray once again to the comfortable living room where Ray had spent so many hours in the company of friends. Out of habit, Ray took his usual position, at the right end of a couch that was broken in just right, with all the wrinkles and soft spots of an old friend. Ray's elbow slotted into the armrest as if it had been custom-made, instead of just worn down in that precise place. Keith occupied the leather chair he always used.

"We so seldom see you twice in one day anymore," Keith said. "I guess you're not here again by happy accident."

"I'm afraid not."

"Is it about Robert Domingo?"

"It is," Ray said, dropping his chin slightly. He had talked to Nick again on his way there, but Nick had been racing someplace, unable to spend much time elaborating on the situation.

Keith straightened in his chair. He took naturally to the role of professor, as he always had, and Ray felt a little like a student dropping by the teacher's house after hours for advice. He had been on both sides of that situation, many times. "What do you need, Ray?"

"Context," Ray said. "You told me about the blood-quantum issues, and I believe you were right, that plays a part in this somehow. But there's more going on than just that. One of our guys is on the Grey Rock reservation now, and he says it's like a war zone. There was a shooting today, multiple victims, including Meoqui Torres."

"Oh, no," Keith said. His face blanched, and he gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles went white. "I hadn't heard about that."

"Two guys in a pickup truck pulled up outside his house and opened fire. Nobody expects that to be the last of it."

"No, I wouldn't, either," Keith said. "I suppose I'll have to tell Ysabel, although it will upset her terribly. Is Meoqui…?"

"He's wounded, but he's alive," Ray told him.

"That's something, at least. I assume he's getting medical attention?"

"He was taken to a clinic."

"Good, good. So what can I do to help?"

"Here's what I need. Alive or dead, Domingo's got his people, right? Torres must have his supporters as well. Where are the lines drawn?"

"In what way?"

"Who would be on whose side? Would the police support Domingo's side, for instance?"

"Oh, yes, for the most part. I mean, cops are working-class people, right? But there's that eternal conflict, because the whole point of police is obedience to authority, right? Maintaining the status quo. For working-class folks, and often union members, they tend to be on the conservative side. I'm not, um, not trying to be offensive – I keep forgetting you're a cop now."

"I'm a scientist," Ray said. "I just work for the same side as the cops. But don't worry, I get your meaning, and I'm not offended."

"Anyway, Chairman Domingo made sure the tribal police were in his pocket. He couldn't pay them a lot of money, but they made a decent living, especially by the prevalent standards on the rez. When he could, he got them new equipment. He made sure the blood-quantum rules were a bit more relaxed when it came to them and for anyone else he wanted to curry favor with. It's astonishing how flexible supposedly inviolable standards can be under the right circumstances. And in the event of any disagreements or controversies surrounding tribal law enforcement, he tried to side with the police. There'll be individual cops with different loyalties and, of course, some who are genuinely fair-minded and impartial. But as a group? Yes, they would be with him. Or with whoever his designated successor is, if he has one."

"That's something else I wanted to ask about," Ray said. "If you know of any obvious successors."

Keith considered for a moment, head back on the chair, eyes toward the vaulted, beamed ceiling. "No one in particular," he said. "I would look at the people running the enrollment eligibility office, because they're obviously people he put a lot of trust in. That's one of the most powerful offices in the tribe. And look at whoever he's put in charge of the new casino and spa, because the people who'll be handling the big money would be high up on his list. I mean, if you're looking for who would benefit financially from his death."