1

  It’s late afternoon on the Tuesday after Columbus Day when a commotion erupts in the lobby of my law firm, Brooks, Valenti & Williams. Mine is the second name on our firm’s masthead: Tony Valenti. My partner, Penelope Brooks, and her mother, Joan Brooks, voices raised, are engaging a person whose voice I don’t immediately recognize. I slide my desk drawer open so I can reach the Glock 19 I keep tucked into the back of it. We’ve had enough excitement here in Cedar Heights to justify keeping the gun within reach, but I haven’t had to use it yet. Not here, anyway … and not today. I exhale and push the drawer closed when I realize who’s come to visit.

  “But you’re in Asia!” I exclaim happily as I step out of my office to the welcome sight of Chepi (Chippy to us), one of our firm’s investigators. She’s been traveling in Southeast Asia, seeking enlightenment and perhaps a good time. We didn’t expect her back for a few more months. She’s a radiant Native American: dark skin, round face, high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes widely spaced, and shimmering raven hair she keeps cut short and spiky. She’s a brilliant young woman who habitually radiates charm and good humor. Usually. But as our eyes meet, I realize something is horribly wrong.

  “What is it?” I ask as I cross the lobby to rest a hand on her shoulder.

  Her eyes meet mine, looking up from beneath long lashes to where I tower above her. I’m six-and-a half feet tall; Chippy is a full foot less. Her eyes well up and tears pour freely down her cheeks as she leans into me, her face pressed against my chest. I wait while she shudders in my arms, her attempts to speak smothered in a succession of sobs.

  My eyes meet those of Penelope and Joan, a pair of fair, wholesome Kansans standing a shade taller than your average toddler, with matching blonde bobs cut in bangs just above their eyes. Both possess blinding, winsome smiles. The smiles are absent as they meet my gaze. In response to me lifting an eyebrow in question, Penelope shrugs, palms up, to indicate she doesn’t know what’s wrong, so we quietly wait for Chippy to gather herself.

  “It’s Dad,” she finally murmurs. “He’s … he’s dead, Mr. V.”

  The news is a shock. Chippy’s father is a professor at the Haskell Indigenous School at the University of Kansas in Lawrence. I’ve only met Dr. Clay Fish once. He’s a distinguished man around my age, clean-shaven, jet-black hair cut a little long over the ears and collar, and as full of life as his effervescent daughter—and far too young to die.

  “What happened?” I ask softly.

  “Hit-and-run car accident,” she replies shakily.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She gives me a long squeeze, then steps back and rubs the back of her hand across her upper lip and nose. She looks ready to keel over from exhaustion. Joan grabs a handful of tissues and hands it to Chippy, who murmurs her thanks.

  I wrap an arm around Chippy’s shoulders and steer her into our modest conference room, where Penelope and I sit on either side of her at an eight-seat table that wouldn’t be out of place in a blue-collar business lunchroom. Joan enters and sets a cup of coffee down in front of Chippy, who musters a hint of a smile and murmurs, “Thank you.”

  Penelope leans close to Chippy and opens her gigantic Kansas heart. She and Chippy have their differences—Penelope is as straight-laced as they come, whereas Chippy has more than a little rebel in her—but nothing would deter my partner from aiding someone in their hour of need. “We’ll do whatever we can, including any legal help you need in Kansas … probating your father’s will, whatever else you need. No charge.”

  “I can pay,” Chippy says.

  Penelope, a member of the Kansas Bar, waves the offer aside. “Nonsense. You’re family.”

  Chippy turns to Penelope with a sad, weary smile. “To be honest, I don’t know what needs doing, so thank you. This all came at me so fast.”

  Penelope squeezes her hand. “We Kansans stick together.”

  Joan slides a plate of home-baked cookies onto the table. Chippy snags one before turning a thousand-yard stare out the window as she nibbles it.

  “No hurry, but tell us what you can,” I say after a moment.

  “Dad’s admin tracked me down in Thailand to give me the news,” she says in an almost robotic voice. “The American embassy staff in Bangkok were helpful, but nobody could tell me much about what happened.”

  “What have you learned since?” I ask.

  “Not a whole lot, Mr. V. It was a hit-and-run in a little town.”

  She meets my gaze, her expression suddenly a touch frantic. “I just flew into O’Hare and I don’t know what to do, Mr. V. I was hoping you guys could give me a little direction before I head back to Lawrence—or maybe I should go straight to Mississippi?”

  “Mississippi?” I ask in surprise. The Fish family hails from Kansas.

  “That’s where Dad died.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Helping someone,” she murmurs before her head sags onto her crossed arms.

  Two hours later, Chippy and I are dinner guests of Penelope and her wife, Becky, at their upscale condo in Chicago’s Oak Park neighborhood. Chippy will be spending the night in their spare bedroom. She’s booked on an early morning flight to Jackson, Mississippi, where she’ll rent a car for the hour-plus drive to Hanover, where her father died. It’s located southwest of Jackson but not quite as far as the Mississippi River.

  “Who was your father helping in Mississippi?” Penelope asks after we’re all seated, wine is poured, and plates bearing slivers of food masquerading as appetizers have been served. All very elegant and trendy, one supposes—and maybe about ten percent as satisfying as a big, fat, juicy burger and fries. Served with a milkshake or ice-cold mug of beer, of course.

  A sad smile touches Chippy’s lips as she answers Penelope’s question. “One of Dad’s former students was elected chief of a tribe down there. She asked him to consult on a land claim dispute.”

  Dr. Fish, who taught Indigenous and American Indian Studies, was considered one of the pre-eminent scholars concerning the historical theft of tribal lands in the United States. He had been called to testify in court many times on behalf of tribes seeking redress.

  My threat antenna tweak at the mention of a land theft dispute, concerned her insatiable curiosity may tempt her to poke around in whatever her father was involved in. After all, Clay’s dead.

  “Why don’t I come with you tomorrow?” I ask. “I hate the idea of you going through this alone.”

  She shrugs and offers a half-smile. “I’ll be fine, Mr. V. A cousin from the rez is coming with me.”

  I’ve been “Mr. V” since our earliest days working together, when she told me to call her Chippy without revealing her real name. She’s a white hat hacker who digs into the dangerous business of some very bad people in an effort to help the good guys—whoever they are in this topsy-turvy new world of ours. She’s a lot of fun and a free spirit, but takes her work deathly seriously and zealously guards her privacy and security. Chippy has pushed the envelope a little too far a time or two, but her intelligence offers some level of comfort in her ability to outsmart the bad guys. Then again, Einstein was apparently wrong once, so.

  “How was Asia?” Becky asks, presumably to change the subject.

  “Awesome!” Chippy replies.

  The next ten minutes are filled with tales of adventure and descriptions of the many marvels she saw and experienced, from the Imperial Citadel in Hue, Vietnam to the Angkor Wat and onward to Kuala Lumpur and the Cameron Highlands in Cambodia. She spent a month volunteering at an animal shelter in Koh Lanta in Thailand, then ventured farther north. “I was so excited to see the Sukhothai Kingdom, starting with the capital.”

  “You went to Sukhothai Thani?” Becky blurts.

  Chippy smiles. “I did! Have you been?”

  “Years and years ago.” Becky hooks a thumb at Penelope. “I want to drag the ball and chain there one of these days.”

  Penelope smiles and shakes her head. This isn’t the first time she’s been referred to as such. Becky is the free spirit in their marriage; Penelope is the level-headed Midwesterner.

  Chippy and Becky chat about this presumably glorious place for a few minutes. It’s a few hundred miles north of Bangkok, which really narrows things down for me. It’s also a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

  Chippy’s smile fades. “Actually, that’s where Dad’s admin tracked me down to give me the news. After a six-hour drive to the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok, I booked a flight to Chicago, figuring you folks would know what I needed to do. To put it mildly, I was in a bit of a fog. Still am, I suppose.”

  “Long flight?” Penelope asks.

  “Twenty-two hours. Bangkok to Tokyo, Tokyo to Chicago.”

  And here we are. Chippy spends a minute studying her surroundings, then delivers a smile to Penelope and Becky. “Man, I just love this place!”

  “Thank you!” they say in unison, beaming with pride. It is a great place, a redevelopment of an elegant three-story mansion that has gone through several iterations since it was built in the 1870s. It’s currently home to a trio of tasteful whole floor condos that rediscovered and restored the building’s original architectural charm in what Becky described as an urban archeological dig that peeled away layers of plaster and drywall, dozens of paint jobs, and an elegant tin ceiling that had been hidden above a circa-1970s suspended acoustical ceiling.

  “Can you imagine?” Becky, still aghast at the memory, asks Chippy.

  “Tacky, tacky, tacky,” Chippy replies, properly appalled by the architectural
transgression.

  As for me, picturing the suspended ceiling brings back memories of guzzling beer and making out with high-school girls in friends’ basements. Guess you had to be there.

  Chippy’s smile fades as her father’s demise crashes back down on her. Our collective mood sags under the weight of her grief. I decide it’s time to let Chippy turn in. She has a tough day ahead of her. I suspect she’s thinking of tomorrow as a sort of ending, as if the journey that began in a Thai jungle two days ago will end at a funeral home in Mississippi. I fear my young friend’s nightmare is only just beginning.

  2

  Ipull to the curb in front of Mike Williams’s home at precisely eight o’clock Monday morning. Mike, who is the third partner of our law firm, is still recovering from a horrific traffic accident that took the life of his young wife and their unborn child five months ago. He was lucky to survive. He’s begun working mornings but isn’t yet driving, so either Penelope or I pick him up every morning. One of us or a Williams family member drives him home again around noon. I honk the horn of my seven-year-old Porsche Panamera once and wait.

  Mike soon appears on the porch of his parents’ immaculate Chicago Greystone two-story home and carefully negotiates the steps with the aid of a cane. His mother stands in the doorway watching until he makes it down to the stone walkway, then steps out and waves to me. Mike’s folks are gems, which explains the quality family they’ve produced—a pair of lawyers, two doctors, a teacher, and a nest full of high-achieving grandchildren following close behind. Good folks, the Williamses are … and for unfathomable reasons known only to themselves, they consider me one of their own.

  When Mike is halfway to the car, I childishly lean on the horn for a moment, which annoys the hell out of him, then lean across the passenger seat to push the door open.

  “Morning, you impatient arsehole,” he says by way of greeting.

  “Morning, you pokey SOB,” I reply.

  And we’re off and running. Mike is as good a friend as I have on this earth. It’s a brotherly love story for the ages, one fueled by sarcasm and insults, plenty of humor, and occasional tender moments that are quickly swept aside.

  Once Mike has squeezed all six feet six of himself into the car, I ease away from the curb to begin the six-block trip to a diner we visit most mornings. Run by a senior citizen who goes by the name King, King’s Diner serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Mike’s health conscious kid brother, Reg, calls it a greasy spoon, but even he can’t argue with how tasty the food is.

  As I pull into a parking spot out front, I glance over at Mike. “Any idea how much longer you’re going to be out of action?”

  “You thinking hoops?” he asks. We have a long-standing tradition at the Cedar Heights RecPlex where Mike kicks my tail on the basketball court before busting my chops about it for days thereafter. The games date back to the earliest days of our friendship. I haven’t won yet.

  “Yeah, I’m thinking hoops,” I reply. “I could take you now.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, White boy. They say I should be able to do some shootarounds by spring, but advise against taking on anyone with a lick of hoops ability. Thankfully, I’ll have you to tide me over.”

  Once we’re seated in a booth inside King’s, we order two coffees, two orange juices, and two daily breakfast platters: three eggs, scrambled, home fries, three rashers of bacon, a trio of pork breakfast sausages, two slices of whole grain toast—the whole grain bread a nod to healthy eating. Of course, the butter we’ll slather on it might induce a pair of instant cardiac infarction events.

  “So, the usual,” King’s fifty-something-year-old daughter, Holly, says with a smile while she rubs a hand affectionately across the gleaming crown of Mike’s clean-shaven head. I wonder why the Lord made bald Black guys look magnificent while White dudes look like someone took a hammer to our heads when the hair comes off.

  Mike smiles. “You could save yourself some time and trouble by just putting our order in when we come in the front door.”

  “Which would be the day you two want granola,” Holly says with a laugh, giving his head a final pat. “It’s good to see you back every day, Mike … Bless the Lord.”

  “Thanks,” he says as she walks off with our order.

  We often tell King that Holly is the secret sauce at his establishment. Mike had once elaborated, “King, if the face of this place was your grouchy old scowl, you’d be lucky to see a dozen customers a month.” And yet King still feeds us, chats with us, and happily takes our money. Family. Lots of that going around in this neighborhood.

  “Chippy popped in yesterday afternoon,” I say while we wait for our food.

  Mike cocks an eyebrow. “I thought she was in Asia for another month or two.”

  I realize a moment too late that I’ve walked us right into more accident news. I sigh. “Her father was killed in a hit-and-run car accident in Mississippi. She’s flying down this morning to take care of things and arrange to fly him back to Kansas.”

  Mike sags in his seat and palms his cheek. “Jesus, man. Too much of that shit going around.”

  I nod sympathetically.

  He takes a long sip of coffee and collects himself. “Hit-and-run, you say. Did they catch the driver?”

  “Not that I know of. Chippy doesn’t have much in the way of details. She’d just gotten off a plane at O’Hare after twenty-two hours in the air when she came to the office. Poor kid’s a wreck. Penelope and Becky fed her and gave her a place to sleep last night.”

  “Good of them.”

  I nod, then tell him as much as we know about what drew Clay Fish to Mississippi.

  “Someone should have gone with her,” Mike says.

  “Agreed. I offered but she blew it off. Says a cousin is flying down.”

  Mike eyes me thoughtfully. “But you still think you should have gone.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Something feels off about all this?”

  “It does,” I reply.

  “We’ve been down to Biloxi, but I don’t know the state well,” Mike says. “Whereabouts is this place?”

  “An hour’s drive southwest of Jackson, on the way to Natchez.”

  Holly arrives with our food on a little trolley, complete with a kid to help offload enough food for a family of four.

  “Enjoy, gents!” she says after she tops off our coffees.

  “I assume you dug deeper into this accident?” Mike bites a chunk out of a slice of toast and waits for my answer.

  “Yep. I was curious about what happened, so I did a little surfing last night to see what I could find. Details about the accident are scarce. It happened around ten thirty Saturday night in a town called Hanover. There was a bare bones sidebar about it in the Jackson paper on Sunday. A local woman who runs a Facebook page purporting to carry all the local news had a little more info, but not much.”

  “No local paper?”

  “Just the Facebook thing. I poked around that a bit—mostly local gossip. Brittany is digging deeper.”

  “Better her than you, assuming you’re hoping for results,” he says with a smile. “How big is this town?”

  “Two thousand souls or so.”

  “Probably isn’t much news around a place that size.”

  “True.”

  I pause to polish off my eggs before they congeal, leaving a couple of pounds of meat and several thousand carbs still to go, then pick up where I left off. “I don’t know spit about Mississippi, so I took a dive down the historical rabbit hole of the region, trying to get a feel for what Clay Fish was doing. Not pretty, my friend.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “There’s also an American Indian reserve there, the Pishukchi Nation Reserve, which I guess was more commonly known as the Milk River Tribe and reserve until relatively recently.”

  “Maybe to the White folks,” Mike says. “Wanna bet the indigenous folks always called themselves Pishukchi?”

  “Good point.”

  “The reserve butts up against Gareau County, which has led to disputes over the years, which have historically been resolved to the benefit of the Gareau family. The county is named after the family patriarch, who established a massive cotton plantation—they’ve controlled things ever since. The Gareau family allegedly wrestled some land from the tribe for oil and gas development. When the tribal chief at the time fought back, he disappeared within days.”