By now the Tohono O’odham knew that they should put guards in their fields to protect their crops. One day near the village of Gurli Put Vo—­Dead Man’s Pond—­which the Milgahn call San Miguel, the corn was ready to harvest. That morning Hawani—­Crow—­was sitting in a tree and saw the Bad ­People coming up out of the ground. Soon they were cutting down all the corn. Crow was so astonished that he called “Caw, Caw, Caw!” The ­people in the village heard Crow’s warning. They came running and drove the Bad ­People away.

That is why the Tohono O’odham are always kind to Thah O’odham—­the Flying ­People—­and never let them go hungry or thirsty, because Crow sounded the alarm.

LANI WAS BOTH RELIEVED AND a little disappointed when the first officer to arrive on the scene was one of the Shadow Wolves shift supervisors, Henry Rojas. She was disappointed because she wanted to get through whatever interviewing she needed to do with the investigating officers. But she was also relieved because Henry was someone she knew. He was a Navajo who hailed from New Mexico, while his wife, Lucy, was a Tohono O’odham nurse who worked at the Sells Indian Hospital. Lani knew them both because they lived in the hospital housing complex.

“I understand there’s been a homicide,” Henry said.

“Two, actually,” Lani corrected.

It was hardly surprising that a Border Patrol vehicle was the first to arrive. Law enforcement agencies working on the reservation had the ability to monitor one another’s radio traffic. Due to the long distances involved, if an officer got into some kind of trouble, people from other agencies who happened to be in the area could respond and render assistance.

“Any idea who the victims are?”

“There’s a vehicle that may belong to one of the José brothers from Sells,” Lani answered, “but that’s just a guess on my part. We didn’t get close to the victims to attempt an identification because we didn’t want to disturb the crime scene. Instead, we called it in and came here to wait.”

“What made you even think to look there?” Henry asked.

“I heard gunshots during the night,” Lani said. “Leo’s son, Gabe, and I were camping out up on Kitt Peak. The shots seemed to be coming from somewhere down here, so we stopped to check.”

Henry looked questioningly at the backseat.

“Gabe’s not here,” Lani explained. “He got his nose out of joint and went home during the night.”

“Walked?”

Lani nodded.

“Stubborn kid,” Henry observed.

“You can say that again,” Leo added.

“Whereabouts are the victims?”

Leo gestured with his head. “Over there,” he said, “by the charco.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“It’s a crime scene,” Lani said, “but it’s not my call.”

The next several vehicles arrived in a caravan. Out in front was a black Suburban that screamed FBI and was FBI. Two agents, one male and one female, emerged from that car and came forward, credentials in hand, to introduce themselves—­Agents Angelica Howell and Joseph Armstrong. Behind them was a van belonging to the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office. Next came a van with a Pima County Sheriff’s Department logo on the door and a four-­man CSI team inside. At the very end of the line was a sedan belonging to Law and Order, the Tohono O’odham tribal police.

Henry reappeared, motioned for the others to follow, and then led the group of investigators off toward the charco. Leo and Lani stayed where they were.

“Are they going to want to question Gabe?” Leo asked.

“Probably,” Lani answered. “He left long enough before it happened that I doubt he saw or heard anything, but they’ll probably want to check to be sure.”

“How long is this going to take?”

Lani sighed. “Probably a long time,” she said resignedly. “I don’t think either one of us is going to make it home in time for lunch.”

Leo nodded. “I’d better call the garage and let them know that I won’t be in until later.”

WHEN BRANDON CALLED THE NUMBER Junior had given him, Amanda Wasser was home and answered the phone.

Her response when he introduced himself surprised him. “Brandon Walker,” she said. “I believe I recognize the name. Aren’t you the original arresting officer, the one who took my father into custody?”

“Yes,” Brandon admitted. “That was me.”

“So what can I do for you, Mr. Walker?”

“John Lassiter reached out to me through his attorney, Oliver Glassman Junior. I volunteer with an organization called TLC, The Last Chance. We follow up on cold cases. Your father claims he wants TLC to look into Amos Warren’s death, and he asked for me in particular.”

Brandon more than half expected Amanda would hang up on him. “Thank God,” she whispered into the phone. “Finally.”

“What do you mean finally?”

“JFA was happy to go after the prosecutorial misconduct angle, but I don’t think any of them ever really believed my father was innocent. Of course, with him in prison, no one in law enforcement is interested in revisiting the case, either. Where are you? I mean, are you here in town?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you stop by?”

Without waiting for a second invitation, Brandon drove straight there. The entrance to the development, not exactly a gated community, was half a mile beyond Wilmot on Speedway. Brandon understood enough about golf to know that courses are supposed to be green. That wasn’t true here. The greens themselves were green, but that was all. Brandon knew that the cost of water had done in more than one Tucson area golf course, but the crazed golf-­cart-­driving players on this one didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the conditions on the course.

When he reached the address, he found a single-­level unit whose front yard had been turned into a bricked patio surrounded by gaily colored pots on metal stands. Each pot overflowed with a bouquet of colorfully blooming flowers. Amanda Wasser, seated on a bright red scooter, was parked beside one of them. Wearing a sun hat and gardening gloves, she was busily deadheading flowers.

“You must be Brandon Walker,” she said with a smile as she stripped off her gloves and held out a hand. “Welcome to my raised garden. Ordinary raised beds don’t work for me anymore. I need something higher that gives me access both front and back. When I’m feeling well enough, I like to work the pots myself. When I’m not well enough, I have a yardman. Won’t you have a seat? Would you care for coffee?”

“No thanks on the coffee,” Brandon said, taking a seat at a patio table with a fully unfurled umbrella. Next to the umbrella was a closed banker’s box. “Just had some. What I’d really like is to know about your father.”

“John Lassiter is my birth father,” Amanda corrected. With that, she tossed her gloves into the scooter’s basket, then rode over to join him at the table. “I consider the man who raised me to be my father. By the way, my adoptive parents are both deceased,” she added. “They died several years ago and only months apart. My birth mother perished in a car wreck, so as far as relatives are concerned, John Lassiter is the last of the Mohicans.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Only what’s in public records and court records,” she said. “I know that he’s in prison for murder and that he has MS. That’s one thing we have in common—­MS. It’s hereditary; it’s also what started me off on the search for my birth parents in the first place. I’d been having symptoms, and my doctors suggested that I track down my birth family’s medical history. I had always known I was adopted, but it came as a big surprise to me to learn that my birth father was in prison just up the road.”

“You grew up in Tucson, then?”

Amanda nodded. “I’m guessing that’s why my parents kept that information from me—­because Florence isn’t very far from here. But yes, I’ve lived in Tucson all my life. I attended Palo Verde High School and the University of Arizona. I’m still there by the way—­at the U of A. I’m a reference librarian in the main library.”