They had stucco walls and tile or shingle roofs, covered entryways, dormer windows. Brass could almost picture the flags snapping in the breeze, the signs offering easy terms and upgrades and low, low interest rates, back when the developer had been trying to entice people to buy these houses. Back when money flowed freely and credit was cheap.

The place was a ghost town.

It wasn't hard to tell which houses were still occupied. They had curtains hanging in the windows, maybe a vehicle in the drive and flowers n the garden.

But even most of those homes had For Sale signs standing out front. Anybody who was stuck in one of these houses wanted to get out, once all the neighbors had been forced from their homes. Brass couldn't blame them. They had moved into a neighborhood, which implied the presence of neighbors, friends for the kids to play with, block parties. Instead, there was the forest of For Sale signs on those posts that looked disturbingly like gallows.

He had been in too many Las Vegas neighborhoods just like this one recently. The recession had hit the city hard, and one of the nation's most booming markets had gone bust practically overnight. The foreclosed homes sat there like silent ghosts, with gaping windows for eyes and Realtors' lockboxes on doorknobs standing in for a little bling in the mouth. Yards were no longer tended, and even in the desert, weeds grew. Broken windows were fixed with tape or boarded over. When no one was buying, no real estate agent wanted to invest in maintaining the houses, and the banks holding the paper weren't about to put money into upkeep.

Shep Moran's mother's house looked just like the others. They watched the addresses as they cruised through the development, and they parked the Jeep well out of sight of the house. Cutting through backyards (and it was worse there, with pools filled with stagnant, algae-filled water or black mold crusting their sides, more broken windows, more signs of neglect), they reached a spot from which they could get a view of her house. It was a pale tan, almost cream, two-story, with a dark brown shingle roof. It sat in a cul-de-sac, with houses on each side but behind it a steep hillside choked with boulders almost the size of the house itself.

Parked out in front were two pickup trucks, one dark blue, the other white, scaled with rust and caked with dirt. A couple of men in tribal police uniforms lounged in the scant shade offered by the white truck, with rifles in their hands.

"Is that one of their official duties?" Brass asked, ducking back behind the cover of an empty house. "Welcoming committee for a couple of punks who aren't even on the reservation?"

"Not official" Aguirre said. "But like I told you, Ruben and Robert Domingo were buds. So I'm not too surprised to see some of Domingo's guys here. I wish they weren't in uniform – that's a little too obvious, isn't it?"

"You could say that."

"How do you want to play this, Jim?"

"Do you know those guys?"

"Sure, I know 'em. Doesn't mean we're friends or anything. If we just walk up to them, they'll sound some kind of alarm, and Ruben and Shep will be gone out the back before we can reach the door. At least we know they're inside, though."

"Then I guess we need to flank them." Brass stepped out of cover long enough to eye the layout of the cul-de-sac. Since they couldn't know what room Solis and Moran were in and because the houses on the curve were set at a slight angle to one another, there was no way to approach from the front without being seen. "I'll hike up into those rocks and come out behind the house. You give me fifteen minutes to get into position, then drive up to the front to distract those cops, and I'll go in the back."

"You sure? Could be a rugged hike."

Brass glanced at his shoes. Polished leather, hard soles. Cop shoes. Not made for mountaineering. But there didn't seem to be a lot of choice. "Well, we don't have a helicopter handy, and I don't see any other way in."

"You want to wait for backup?"

"And stand here while Solis and Moran decide to go somewhere else? I'll make the call on my way, but l don't want to wait."

"It's your call," Aguirre said.

"Then it's a plan. And Richie?"

"Yeah?"

"If you get shot, try to make sure it's loud enough and takes long enough to cover my entrance."

"I'll try to do that. And what are you going to be doing, exactly?"

"I'll be asking Solis and Moran some questions," said Brass.

"Questions? You don't think arresting them might be a good idea?"

"I think it's a great idea. But they're not suspects yet."

"In Domingo's killing. Which is your biggest problem. In the attack on Meoqui Torres's home, they're definitely suspects, and that's my problem."

"True. But they're on my turf now, which gives me first crack. Don't worry, I won't let them go anywhere without releasing them to you.'

"Whatever you say, Jim. It's not like I have any jurisdiction here anyway. But if we don't get 'em rattled up, we're never gonna get anything out of 'em on either case."

"Okay," Brass said. "Not a great plan, but it's a plan."

"That's how I look at it." Aguirre raised his chin toward the boulders behind the house that was giving them cover. "Head that way, then circle around," he suggested. "Maybe a quarter-mile, a little less. There probably won't be guards inside. Or not many, at least."

"I just want to talk to them, not get into a gun-fight," Brass said. "Maybe you should go in the back door."

"And let you go in the front way? You want to go talk to the guys who we know have guns?"

"What, you don't think they'd welcome me with open arms?"

"I'm more worried about what'll be in their hands. Go ahead, Jim. I'll get back around front and keep them occupied. When you get the drop on Ruben and Shop, get 'em in cuffs and bring 'em outside."

"Got it," Brass said, heading into the rocks. "I'll see you there."

By the time Brass had picked a route between the first boulders, a fine layer of light brown dust had completely coated his shoes and the cuffs of his dark pants. Soon he wished he had left his suit jacket in the Jeep or managed to bring the vehicle's air-conditioning with him. It wasn't a particularly hot day as southern Nevada went, but it wasn't cool, either. Brass took the jacket off and slung it over his shoulder as he worked his way over, around, and between more huge slabs of stone.

He wasn't sure what he would find when he got to the house. But if it was air-conditioned and had a floor, it would be better than this.

When the traffic hemming him in lightened, Ray pressed down on the accelerator pedal and felt the vehicle surge forward. He had been meaning to head for the reservation for hours, certain that Nick and Captain Brass could use another pair of hands there. But one thing after another had come up, stalling him, keeping him otherwise occupied. Now that he was finally on his way, the urge to race there at top speed was almost overwhelming.

He would have to call Nick when he got a little closer. As reservations went, Grey Rock was not a large one, but it still covered a lot of square miles, and he didn't know his way around.

But as he thought about calling Nick, he remembered the last phone call he had received, from Wendy. Domingo, she had said, was killed by a white man with blond hair and blue eyes. Since they didn't have a specific suspect in mind yet, it wasn't necessarily a game changer. But it certainly shifted the emphasis of their search.

As Ray drove, he pondered what else he knew about the case, both things he had learned firsthand from the physical evidence and details he had been told by others. Domingo had been out at a nightclub, where he spent a lot of money and quite a bit of time with a young Paiute woman. He tried to take her home with him, at which point she revealed her true agenda. They argued, and she got out of his Escalade and threw a brick through the passenger window. But she didn't kill him, or so she said. The evidence backed her up on that point.