One of the men standing by Torres shifted his guns toward Nick. The other – the one who had been part of Torres's entourage – kept his trained on the man in the bed. It would be easy enough for him to lift the barrel an inch or so, to shoot over Torres and hit the doctor in the corner. "What the hell are you?" one of the older men asked. "You're not a regular cop."

"LVPD Crime Lab," Nick said. "I think I know what you guys are doing here, but I can tell you definitively that Meoqui Torres didn't kill Chairman Domingo." He hoped he had read the situation right, that the two older men were some of Domingo's enforcers, and the younger guy, the one who had been part of Torres's entourage, was secretly in Domingo's pocket.

"You know who did, why ain't you off arresting him?" Torres's supposed friend challenged.

"Let the man speak," the doctor urged.

"How do you know this?" the older man asked. Traces of white flecked his neatly combed black hair. He had a mole under his left eye that made him look as if he was half-squinting. He and Nick had their weapons aimed at each other, but Nick hadn't forgotten the other gun, the one behind him. If shooting started, he would take two rounds. At these ranges, the men weren't likely to miss.

"Because Domingo was killed by a white man with blond hair," Nick said. "We don't know who yet, but we know it wasn't Torres."

"Damn straight," Torres said, flipping his jet-black hair back with his hand.

"You sure about that?" Torres's hanger-on asked. Almost as if reminding the two older men, he added, "Torres took off by himself last night, said he was going for a drive. But he was gone about the same time as Domingo got whacked."

"Oh, I think Torres was there," Nick admitted. "But he didn't kill anyone."

"Then what…?"

"Let's all put down those weapons, and we can talk about it," Nick said.

"I don't know," the second of the older men said. A network of wrinkles bracketed his eyes, and he had a chin as big as a man's fist and a thick slump of a neck. He was the one with liquor oozing out his pores. His voice had a strange kind of calm to it that Nick had heard before in other people – mostly men, mostly hardened murderers. Instead of being upset about his circumstances, the man was as cool and emotionless as if he had been ordering a burger at a take-out window. Nick suspected that this one had done all of the killing, and the other guys were only along for moral – in this case, immoral – support. "We're already in kind of a jam here."

Nick had been hoping they would somehow forget that they had just killed a tribal police officer, a clinic worker, and Torres's two bodyguards. He hadn't expected them to, but expecting and hoping were different things. "Let's not make things worse, then," he said. "Put those weapons on the floor, and slide them to me, and we can take care of this with no one else getting hurt."

The older man's hand was starting to shake a little. Nerves or the booze starling to wear off, Nick wasn't sure which. But the man's gun was twitching, and he tightened his grip on it, and Nick knew that one more involuntary squeeze could jerk the trigger. "Look," he began. "You need to put that -"

The man let his mouth drop open and took a half-step toward Nick. Nick increased the pressure on his own trigger, ready to shoot but knowing that if he did, then lead would fly, and no one would come out unscathed.

But Torres moved first, swatting out with his left arm. The water pitcher flew off its tray into the older man's side. Startled and soaked, the man spun toward Torres.

Nick moved, charging forward. The gun went off behind him, but he was ducking and jumping, and the slug soared past him into the wall, not far from the doctor in the corner. Nick crashed into the older man, driving him back into the wall. The man's gun went off once, pointed toward the floor, and then Nick caught his right wrist and smashed it against the wall while driving his other arm into the man's throat.

At the same time, the younger guy, the one who had been close to Torres, lifted his gun. "I'm sorry, Meoqui," he said. He turned the gun toward the man in the back corner, who was probably trying to line up a shot at Nick that wouldn't also threaten his friend. "Meoqui's been good to me. I love Domingo, but Meoqui's not the man you think he is. Drop your gun, Luis, so I don't have to cap your ass."

Nick banged his man's hand into the wall a third time, and this time, his fingers went limp, and the gun hit the linoleum floor with a loud clank. The man's face was turning purple, so Nick eased off his throat. Still holding the wrist, he sidestepped and twisted the man's arm up behind his back, forcing him to bend forward at the waist, onto Torres's bed. He whipped handcuffs from his belt, wishing he had several more pairs, and snapped them over the man's wrists.

The guy in the corner tossed his gun to the floor. The doctor picked up the gun the older man had dropped and, holding it gingerly between one finger and his thumb, offered it out to Nick. "I hate these things."

"You're not the only one." Nick turned to Torres's once and maybe future friend. "Can you put yours on the floor and then shove yours and his over here?"

The guy didn't look as if he wanted to relinquish his. But the man in the corner was beaten, done, sagging against the wall, and mopping at his face with a tissue. "Sure," the younger man said, and did what Nick asked.

Nick shoved all of the guns into the corner, behind the doctor, well out of reach of anyone else in the room.

It had all gone down better than he had expected, with only two shots fired and no one hurt. These three men had wanted to kill Torres, but maybe all of the killing they had done to get to that point, combined with the news that Torres hadn't done what they thought, had deflated them, taken the wind out of their revenge-driven sails.

"That's better," Nick said. "Now we can all make nice."

"Thank you," the doctor said. "Can I go now? There are people out there who need my help."

"Go on," Nick said. He covered the doctor's hurried retreat with the gun. "And call the tribal police, okay? Stat."

"What makes you think I was at Domingo's house?" Torres asked when the doctor had left. His voice was strained, his face still pale, but he was alert.

"Thanks for that move with the water pitcher," Nick said. "And granted, it's not much to go on, but somebody with feet your size was in Domingo's backyard that night. You were away from your buddies, off on your own. You and Domingo had some kind of feud going. Two and two doesn't always make four, but in this case…"

"Lot of people have feet my size." Torres said. "But yeah, okay, I was there."

"You were?" his friend asked.

"Karina Ochoa called me," Torres said. "She had this big argument with Domingo, and she busted one of the windows in his ride. She was afraid he might have her tracked down and hurt or something. I told her I'd go talk to him, try to settle things down. When I got there, his front door was wide open. I thought there was something wrong about that, and so I tried to look in some of the windows. From the back, I could see him in there, and he was dead."

"And you didn't call the police?" Nick asked. He was stalling for time, hoping the doctor would be able to get through to the tribal cops before these killers realized he had no jurisdiction here. The gun in his hand gave him power, for the moment. But there was nothing official backing that up; he possessed no badge that meant anything here.

"Dude, you don't live in my world. If there's a wolf harassing your sheep, do you call in another wolf?"

"I guess not."

"I didn't know who had done him, but I thought maybe I could use his death to spur some dialogue here on the rez. I went in the house, put one of his napkins over my fingers, dipped it in his blood and wrote on his wall."