“What about the call last night to our place?” Daniel said.
“Marsha’s people checked,” Cork said. “Burner phone. No way to trace it. But we’ve got a lead on Lewis.”
“Before he went to work on security for the pipeline, Lewis was employed as an officer on the Hibbing police force,” Dross explained. “I spoke with the chief of police there. He told me that a year ago Lewis—first name Adrian—was fired following a number of complaints from both citizens and his fellow officers. I’ve got an address for him. Cork and I are going there today.”
Monte Bonhomme said, “I spoke with my friend in Duluth PD, got the address for the house where Fawn Blacksmith was picked up before she went to that school in Bixby. It’s a place a lot of Indian kids know about. Apparently, they clear it out periodically, after the neighborhood complains enough, but squatters keep coming back. I’m wondering if she might have headed back there when she got out of juvenile detention. Agent Shirley and I thought we’d check it out. Care to come with us, Daniel?”
“You betcha.”
Dross said, “Then let’s roll.”
Monte drove Agent Shirley and Daniel to Duluth in his Tahoe, stopping at a smoke shop on the way so that Daniel could buy a few packs of Newport Menthol 100s. “Street currency,” he explained. He also bought that day’s issue of the Duluth News Tribune. The headline read: SUSPECT IN HAMILTON KILLING FLEES POLICE.
Agent Shirley shook her head and said again, “Barking up the wrong tree.”
“Fawn Blacksmith got no headlines when she went missing,” Daniel said with an acid note. “Crystal Two Knives didn’t either. They weren’t white.”
“They also weren’t the daughter of a state senator,” Monte pointed out.
“Wouldn’t have made a difference. A white girl would still have made the headlines and you know it.”
“Not arguing with that,” Monte said.
The address was in Lincoln Park, a dilapidated two-story on a dead-end street, a structure just barely held together by a few rusty nails. The yard was all dead weeds. The sidewalk looked like an earthquake had shattered it. The porch was furnished with a pale green sofa that vomited gray stuffing. There was no screen, just a wood door, leprous in the way it was peeling white paint.
Agent Shirley said, “Your uniforms are going to scare them. I’ll knock.”
Daniel and Monte stepped to either side of the front door, out of sight. Agent Shirley knocked, got no response. She knocked again, this time persistently.
The door opened, and Daniel heard a raspy voice say angrily, “What?”
“I’m looking for someone who might have known a girl named Fawn Blacksmith.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Ojibwe girl. Pretty. Here’s her picture.”
She held it out, but no hand reached to take it.
“Look, lady, get lost.”
Daniel stepped into view next to Agent Shirley. “What about me? Want me to get lost?”
“Or me?” Monte said and flanked the BIA agent on the other side.
“What the f—”
It was a kid, maybe twenty at most, thin, unwashed, his long black hair stringy. He was Native.
“Just look at the photo,” Daniel said. The kid threw an expletive at him. Daniel calmly reached into the pocket of his uniform blouse and pulled out a pack of Newports. “Smoke?”
The kid hesitated, then took the offering.
“We’re not here to bust you or anyone else,” Daniel said. “We’re just trying to find information about Fawn Blacksmith. She used to crash here. Take a good look at the photo.”
The kid studied it, then shook his head.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Month.”
“Anybody around who’s lived here longer?”
“Blue. He’s lived here the longest.”
“Is Blue here now?”
The kid swiped a long strand of greasy hair away from his eyes. “Out signing with his dog.”
“Signing?”
“You know.” He lifted his hands, miming the holding of a sign. “ ‘Need money. Anything’ll help.’ ”
“Does he have a regular spot?”
“Lake Street, off I-35.”
It was just after noon when they found Blue sitting on an overturned milk crate. An old hound, maybe part Irish setter, sat patiently at his feet. Blue was Native, older than the kid at the house, thirtyish. He wore dirty khaki shorts, sandals, a red T-shirt, holes in the armpits. A Twins ball cap shaded his face. He held a handmade sign: VETERAN. NEED HELP. ANYTHING YOU CAN SPARE. GOD BLESS YOU.
He eyed them implacably as they approached on foot. The dog looked at them the same way.
“You really a vet?” Monte asked.
“Fourth Stryker Brigade, Second Infantry Division. We were the last to leave Iraq.” He stated it simply but with a note of pride.
Daniel wanted to ask about the path that took him from Iraq to signing on an interstate ramp in Duluth, but he knew being Indian meant that, even with a history of military service, there were still a thousand roadblocks to a decent life. And maybe the alcohol odor coming off Blue explained a lot.
Monte said, “I understand you crash at that house in Lincoln Park.”
“What of it?”
“Been there awhile, right?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Remember a girl named Fawn Blacksmith?”
From the shadow that the bill of the ball cap cast across his face, Blue eyed Monte, then a car passing on the street. “You’re scaring away my daily bread.”
