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part-genealogist. You better know who’s related to whom. Complications like some guys status in the tribe might...” They both heard the sound of screeching brakes at the emergency entrance. “Been expectin’ this. Pun intended. Sure glad you’re here.”
    Before they made it to the ER, Bill let him know about a big pow-wow coming up in Gallup. Tomorrow, highlight of the year. Fathers of near-term mothers drove their pregnant wives across rough terrain to induce labor.
    “Consider this your initiation to Zuni. Work fast—we only have three delivery rooms.”
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    Albuquerque. Mario talked to anyone who would speak to him at the Public Health office, Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Indian Hospital. What did he learn? Zuni Pueblo was remote compared to other pueblos. And huge—four hundred square miles. Extending into Arizona.
    No one heard of Dr. Jack D’Amico. Mario pressed the issue at the PHS and was stone-walled. Talk about body language. He was used to being the intimidator, not on the defensive. But he kept the shit below his shoelaces. Did the job and got out.
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    Lori May Wilson remained behind as the other mourners, all FBI and/or Chicago police, left the graveside service. Gabriel D’Amico dressed in a dark suit and looking shattered, cried openly, and kept his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He was the only family member present; there were no restaurant staff, no friends, only law enforcement.
    Five fresh graves.
    Lori took Gabriel’s hand. “I’m so very sorry.”
    Gabriel shook his head and pulled his hand away. His cheeks were wet with tears. An officer waited discretely by an unmarked police car to take him home.
    “Can I help you to the car?”
    “No, thank you, you are very kind.” Gabriel slowly walked away, turning his head back repeatedly as if he couldn’t bear to leave.
    Lori wondered if the killer or killers were watching. Only two bouquets of flowers, one anonymous (actually the FBI), the other from Gabriel. As instructed, the funeral director placed them in the holes where Rose and Pasquale’s caskets lay at rest. She watched workmen fill the graves with soil, but her mind was far from the cemetery.
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    Thirty-six hours earlier, Lori had been called to the Chicago FBI Field Division in the Loop. The new Dirksen Building on Dearborn Street. Dressed in her FBI uniform—black suit, white blouse buttoned-to-the-top, high heels that she hated. Getting off the elevator at the eighth floor, she wiped her palms on her very short skirt, drew a breath and walked down a long hallway of identical office doors and past the requisite portrait of in-hot-water Richard Milhous Nixon. The desk of a private secretary blocked the entrance of the office of the Special Agent in Charge.
    The secretary was on the phone, and after saying repeatedly, “Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” she looked up at Lori and smiled. “If you’re here to interview as my replacement, you’re one floor off. Agent Scott’s office is on nine.”
    “No, actually I’m here to see Special Agent Brooks,” said Lori, introducing herself.
    “I expected a man, Agent L. M. Wilson. But, you’re a pleasant sight. The big boys don’t allow many women up here. After thirty years of testosterone and arrogance, I’m glad to be returning to a more hospitable world outside the Service.”
    Lori guessed the woman to be in her early fifties, maybe older. She couldn’t tell by her dark skin and large brown eyes, which were carefully made up. Dark hair cropped short, bound by a black and red scarf. The spot of red being the only real color in the beige office. Her name, according to the plastic plate on her desk, was Yolanda Cervantes, CPA.
    “You certainly don’t look like you’ve been here for thirty years,” said Lori.
    “And you, mí niña, look like you’re too young, too petite, y muy chica to be an agent of the FBI,” Yolanda replied, blowing her nose and apologizing. “He keeps it so blasted cold in