Family Claims: Chapter One

Monday, July 20

The narrow ribbon of asphalt sliced through the great expanse of tan that led away in all directions—borderless, inarticulate, nearly astonishing. Distant mountains wavered and glistened in the heat like a mirage, a tweed of saguaros and palo verde clothing their lower slopes. Overhead in the midday blue, a “V” of Canadian geese sped homeward, more sound than sight.

Hannah Dain’s long, lean body, taut as a bridge cable, stretched over the pencil-thin bike frame as it sped down the swath of highway. Muscles bunched and lengthened, driving her legs in an unceasing tempo—eighty times a minute, ninety, one hundred. Her feet seemed to dance on the pedals to the humming of the tires.

The road curved and Hannah down-shifted, skidding through an intersection studded with white crosses commemorating the unluckier head-on collisions and rollovers. Salty dampness crept out from under her arms and spread across her back. One more month, she thought as she returned her cadence to a punitive rate, soft grunts accompanying each downstroke.

As usual, any beauty in the desert was lost on Hannah. After the metallic sheen of the East Coast, Arizona’s landscape seemed too drab, and there was too much of it. The apparent lack of boundaries made her uncomfortable. She viewed its stark never-ending space as a personal test, imposing on her an obligation to fill it, make her presence known. Far different from the city, where she just had been expected to be part of the masses.

A pair of familiar whitewashed pillars came into view. Spokes glinting in the sunlight, Hannah hurtled past her father’s gated driveway without a sideways glance. Richard Dain’s Spanish Colonial was a large dwelling with courtyard gardens, period furniture, and an extensive wine cellar behind thick adobe and ironwork. When she was little, Hannah thought it looked like a castle. Her older sister, Shelby, had lived there until she finished law school, but Hannah hadn’t spent much time within its stucco walls—just school holidays as a child, staying in a guest room, and now during the occasional dinner, always as one of at least half a dozen guests.

Usually Hannah didn’t put much emphasis on her childhood, mostly because the facts added up to a lot of heavy weather. And her father’s lack of interest and her sister’s unfriendliness had long ceased to matter. She was reconciled to her place on the periphery, among them but not of them. Her sense of self was grounded in her professional life as a transactions lawyer, not as a daughter or a sister. Diligence, exactitude, thoroughness—the troika pulling along her legal career.

And that career had just been given a boost, thanks to Eddie Keene. The first client to seek out her legal services—her other clients were referrals from Richard —Eddie had needed financing for his planned development of auto malls: small strip centers providing only vehicle-related services, such as oil changes, window tinting, and car detailing. Working largely by herself, Hannah had taken his company public via a nine-million-dollar stock offering. The stockbrokers had quickly sold all of the IPO’s shares, and the funds had been released yesterday. Two million dollars had been transferred to the title company to finalize the purchase of the eight sites Eddie had previously selected and put under contract. The other seven million raised by the deal would be used to construct the buildings and finance other improvements.

And what better time to tell Richard she was resigning from the firm than after giving him a check for the legal fees from Eddie’s deal? Anticipation welled up through her chest as she thought of the letter with the Boston postmark tucked away in her office drawer. We are pleased to confirm our offer of a position as an associate attorney... Sidewalk cafés, urban anonymity, a range of seasons that went beyond hot and hotter—all hers a month from now.

She savored the idea of her new home, stamping the word into her pedal stroke. Bos-ton, Bos-ton, Bos-ton. Twenty-three hundred miles between her and the firm, the desert, her family. Before, physical distance hadn’t mattered — obligation had pulled her back to Arizona. She had spent three years learning to be a lawyer—and three years failing to connect with Richard and Shelby. Now, her duty done, she’d be able to leave without looking back.

Leave? Or run away? Without warning, painful thoughts crowded aside her happy expectations. An aloof Richard, a hostile Shelby, an absent Elizabeth—the memories stung like cactus needles.

Hannah’s jaw clenched. She muscled through a turn, then ratcheted up the tempo again. Haunches tight, lungs pumping like bellows, she forced the irritation out of her soul and into her legs, oblivious to her surroundings until a shape moved by the roadside.

“Dammit!”

She grabbed the brakes and laid down rubber as a coyote darted across the pavement. Barely clearing her front wheel, he disappeared into the chaparral, his coat the yellow-brown-gray of most desert creatures.

Chest heaving, she sat up in her seat and coasted while her adrenaline ebbed, taking the rest of her ire with it. Brushing sweat from her eyes with a gloved hand, she took a long swallow from her water bottle, then another.

Once it subsided, she felt foolish at her flare of temper. At two years shy of thirty, she should know better. She was the one who had chosen to come back to Arizona, to give it a try with the family law firm. She slipped the bottle back into its cage. Some fissures were apparently too deep to bridge.

A car approached from behind, tiny in her helmet mirror. The intrusion was unexpected—this stretch of road didn’t get much traffic. Hannah dropped back onto her handlebars and steered the bike onto the shoulder where the asphalt was less even.

“Hurry up and pass,” she said through gritted teeth as her tires jolted over the rough pavement.

But the car slowed to her pace, keeping its distance. Ten seconds went by, then twenty. Hannah felt the first pinprick of nervousness. There were drivers who took out cyclists just for the fun of it. She resisted the urge to accelerate. It was pointless—there were a dozen miles of nothing between her and the next building.

The headlights blinked once, twice, the flash reflecting off her mirror. Hannah threw a quick glance over her shoulder. The car looked familiar, but glare made it hard to tell. Her breathing became shallow and rapid. She could smell the fear in her sweat.

The driver gunned the engine, propelling the vehicle closer. Hannah’s anxiety turned into alarm. The front bumper was within twenty feet of her rear tire. She was twisting in the saddle for another look when the car’s horn began to blare.

Instinctively, Hannah wrenched the handlebars to the right, fighting to keep the bike vertical as her tires dropped off the pavement and sluiced through sand. Unclipping her feet from the pedals, she quickly dismounted and whirled to face her pursuer. Her heart was beating so fiercely, her ribs hurt.

The car, now parked next to the spot where she had gone off the road, was an old-style white Cadillac, complete with fins and dice hanging from the rear view mirror. Recognition hit, and relief—quickly followed by fury—coursed through her.

“Goddamnit, Eddie! What the hell are you doing?”

The driver’s door creaked open and Eddie Keene clambered out.

“The property—it’s gone! Every single parcel. That jerk sold it to somebody else!” Built like a bear, Eddie had a pale round face and poodlish hair, mostly dark blond. His baggy Guayabera shirt flapped over his cargo shorts, making him look like an aging beach bum.

Hannah slung her bike onto her shoulder and picked her way through the cactus back toward the pavement. “What are you talking about?”

Eddie paced at the edge of the road, his flip-flops smacking against the bottom of his feet.

“My insurance guy called this morning. He tells me he can’t write a policy on the auto mall properties ‘cause there’s something funny with the titles, and that I better call the County Recorder’s office. I did, and he was right—all eight parcels were sold to some other company, day before yesterday. And for a couple hundred grand less!” Eddie’s words tumbled out in a steady stream.

Hannah leaned her bike against the Cadillac, the lawyer part of her mind clicking into gear. Why would the seller breach his contract with Eddie? She’d reviewed the purchase documents. If the properties weren’t delivered as promised, Eddie’s claim for damages would be in the hundreds of thousands. It didn’t make sense.

“My insurance guy says unless the other buyer was in cahoots with the seller, it’s a done deal.”

“He’s right,” Hannah said. “If the other buyer is a bona fide third party—that means he didn’t know about your contract—the property is his.”

Eddie waved his hands in the air. “What the hell am I supposed to do now? Those were perfect locations. And who’s gonna give me back my two million bucks?”

“That’s why we bought title insurance. If there’s a problem involving the chain of title, you’re covered,” Hannah said, projecting a confidence she didn’t feel. Truth was, she had never had a deal come apart like this before. She pointed at the Cadillac.

“Can you give me a lift to the office? With the front wheel off, the bike’ll fit in your trunk. I want to phone the title company right away.”

“No problem. Then I’m going back to the west side. I called the seller’s office but I couldn’t get through. Thought I’d stop by this afternoon.”

His comment brought Hannah up short. Raised in one of New York’s tougher neighborhoods, Eddie had a checkered history he swore was behind him. But that was before his nine million dollar deal had crashed and burned.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Eddie,” she said. “It’ll only make things more complicated.”

“You mean no do-it-yourself lawsuits.”

Hannah hefted her bike into the trunk and shut the lid. “Do-it-yourself?”

Eddie held up his hands, balled into fists. “Here’s the judge and jury.”

Hannah opened the passenger door but didn’t get in. Instead, she locked eyes with her client over the car roof. “No self-help, Eddie. I don’t want to bone up on my criminal defense.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll do things your way.” Hannah didn’t miss the unspoken “for now” made plain by his grimace.

Eddie slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and swung the car into a U-turn. “So if the property’s history, what happens next? Do I start looking for other locations?”

“Yes, but you can’t use the money raised by the offering to pay for them. Unless you purchase the properties specified in the investor documents, the deal has to be rescinded and the money refunded to the investors.”

Including the funds that were supposed to be paid to Dain & Dain. Under his agreement with the firm, Eddie still owed attorneys’ fees even if the deal didn’t close. But Hannah knew her client’s financial status—rather, his lack thereof. You can’t collect what isn’t there. So much for her triumphant march into Richard’s office that afternoon with a six-figure check.

Eddie groaned. “You mean I have to start all over again? I’m gonna sue that jerk!”

“You can, but I’m not sure how much you’d recover. Your damages are mostly future profits, and those are always hard to prove. You also might have a problem collecting.”

Eddie sighed. “How long is it gonna take to undo this mess?”

“Hard to say. Depends how cooperative the title insurance company is and how hard you want to go after the seller.”

“A week? A month? Longer?”

“I hope not,” Hannah said, thinking of the letter from Boston. “I really hope not.”

Chapter One of Spurred Ambition →
Chapter One of Heir Apparent →
Chapter One of False Fortune →

Spurred Ambition: Chapter One

Sunday, September 13

Hannah Dain parked her Subaru behind a stand of sun-faded palo verde. She didn’t know much about breaking and entering, but figured that hiding the getaway car was probably a good idea.

Dressed in black athletic tights and long-sleeved top, she reached into the rear seat for her rock-climbing shoes. The rubber soles would be quiet and provide good traction if she had to make a run for it. Slipping on her backpack and largest pair of sunglasses, Hannah checked out her reflection in the car’s side mirror.

All I need is a balaclava to complete the burglar look. But a woolen hood would attract too much attention, especially in the middle of a hot Arizona afternoon.

Head down, she zigzagged through the chaparral toward the lone building. Two single-story wings stretched out from a high central section, stucco walls bright white against the sharp blue sky. The windows were covered with iron grilles that Hannah suspected were more functional than decorative. A pergola draped with vines led past well-groomed lawns to tennis courts and a lap pool.

Once in the parking lot, Hannah continued to work her way forward, using the cars as cover. Thirty feet from the building’s main entrance, she crouched in the shade of an oversized SUV to survey the scene.

She had timed her visit for the afternoon, when the “guests”—Hannah thought the term ridiculous—were confined to their rooms and the staff spent more time in their offices. So far, the only person in sight was the security guard standing next to the front door.

White and in his mid-thirties, the guard wore mirrored sunglasses and a duty belt heavy with billy club, mace, and gun. He remained nearly as stationary as the building itself for the twenty minutes Hannah watched him.

Maybe he’ll go to the bathroom soon. She toyed with the idea of plying him with a Coke from the gas station down the road.

Walking past the guard was Hannah’s only option. There were alternative means of entry—climbing in through an air-conditioning vent, prying open a window, picking a lock on a side door. But they all required equipment and skills that Hannah didn’t have. She wondered if the penalty was less severe for entering sans breaking.

On the street side of the parking lot, Hannah heard an engine rumble, then downshift. She squatted lower behind the SUV as a truck displaying a nursery company’s logo rolled up to the building’s main entrance. The driver’s side window was down, and Hannah heard the blare of mariachi music.

Two Hispanic men wearing dark green shirts and matching baseball hats got out of the cab, slid open the door in the back, and started unloading plants. Hannah didn’t know what kind they were, but it didn’t matter. They were tall and leafy and just the thing to get her into the lobby past the security guard.

Keeping out of sight, Hannah crept up to the truck and, standing on the running board, looked through the open driver’s window. A cap emblazoned with the nursery company’s name, like the ones the two delivery men wore, lay on the front seat. Hannah reached in, snatched the cap, and pulled it low on her head. Walking to the rear of the truck, she picked up the closest plant—a four-foot-tall specimen with thick fronds in a black plastic tub—and carried it toward the building entrance.

The two delivery men were already hauling tubs of their own. Hannah fell in line behind them, grateful for her dark hair and olive skin. If her fellow plant bearers noticed that their number had increased, they gave no sign.

As the two men passed the security guard, one turned to the other and spoke in rapid Spanish. The other laughed and answered. Hannah decided she better join the conversation.

“Dé mis recuerdos a sus tíos,” she said as she went by the guard, hoping he was as monolingual as he looked. Otherwise he might wonder why Hannah had just given her regards to his aunt and uncle. It was one of the few Spanish phrases she could recall from a summer course a few years ago—her East Coast prep school had emphasized French. Luckily, the guard ignored her.

The building’s lobby was tastefully appointed with wood and leather furniture. Beautiful photographs of the Grand Canyon covered several walls. But despite the resort-hotel façade, Hannah wasn’t fooled. Fully equipped gym, gourmet cuisine, and decorator-chosen color scheme aside, the place still had the air of a prison.

Holding the plant high in front of her, Hannah frog-marched across the tile floor. The plastic tub was starting to feel heavy—all told, her camouflage probably weighed forty pounds. At least it wasn’t a cactus.

Eyes averted, she passed the reception desk, on course for the door that led to guest housing. Only when she got closer did she see the five-button keypad.

Now what? Hannah needed a free hand to work the lock, but didn’t want to risk discovery by setting down the plant. In any event, it was a hypothetical dilemma. She didn’t know the lock combination.

“Looks like you have your hands full. Let me help you.”

A woman in a nurse’s uniform reached around Hannah and tapped in a sequence on the keypad. There was a loud click. The woman grasped the handle and opened the door.

“Muchas gracias,” Hannah mumbled into the fronds.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Hannah put down the plant and rubbed her aching biceps. Her arms felt so stretched out, she almost expected her sleeves to be too short.

She was in a narrow corridor lined with closed doors. Each one had a nameplate mounted beside it, and Hannah blew out a small sigh of relief. Finding the right room was going to be easier than she had thought.

Hannah read the first name.

Nope.
She crossed the hall and looked at the nameplate there.

Not this one.
She reached down, grabbed the rim of the plant, dragged it ten feet, then stopped and read the next name.

Uh-uh.

She checked the door across the way.

Not here either.

Hannah dragged the plant another ten feet, then paused, hands propped on her knees. Sweat dampened the bill of her cap.

Thirty seconds to check four doors. Thirty seconds wasn’t very long. Unless you were hauling a heavy plant down a hallway where you didn’t belong with another dozen doors to check—on each side. And when at any moment one of the doors might open, with the person behind it wanting to know just what in the heck you were up to.

On a hunch, Hannah jogged the length of the corridor. From what she could tell, the rooms at the end were slightly larger, and so might be considered premium accommodations. She was pleased, and not altogether surprised, to find the name she was looking for on the last door on the right.

Hannah ran back to the plant and dragged it over beside the main door. In case she had to dash, she didn’t want any obstacles in her way. And if someone else showed up, Hannah hoped that the plant would divert attention long enough for her to escape.

She returned to the room at the end of the corridor. Scarcely breathing, Hannah stood close to the door and pressed her ear against the metal, but she couldn’t hear anything—to be expected in a place where the insulation was thick enough to muffle the occasional scream.

Hannah reached for the knob. It turned under her hand, and she felt a surge of excitement. Heart pounding, she eased the door open about half an inch, unsure what she was going to find on the other side.

Just then, voices sounded at the other end of the corridor.

“What’s this plant—”

Hannah pushed the door open wider and stepped into the room.

Chapter One of Heir Apparent →
Chapter One of False Fortune →
Chapter One of Family Claims →

Heir Apparent: Chapter One

Friday, October 4

Gliding down the Beeline Highway at three miles over the limit, Atticus Barclay couldn’t help but chuckle. Despite speed cameras and sheriff’s patrols, cars were flowing by him like he was a rock in a stream. No matter the odds against them, some people just had to flout the law.

Not Barclay. In his mind the law was a big wall, like the one the Feds had put up along the Mexican border. As a plaintiff’s attorney, it was his job to get his clients over it, under it, or around it, so they could collect their due on the other side. Climbing, digging, even flying over—it didn’t matter how he got them there as long as he operated within the ethics rules. He settled more comfortably into his sheepskin-covered seat and flicked on the cruise control.

Despite the Mercedes’ speed, the ocotillos and saguaros along the roadside seemed to roll leisurely by, a silent movie in sepia tones. A fiery sunset flared at the horizon, flames of red licking the opalescent air. Beneath the purr of the air-conditioning, the big German sedan ran as smoothly and silently as a desert puma.

Barclay held the tan leather steering wheel with a light touch. His fingers were grimy, and there was dirt under his nails. Legal work involved a lot of things, some of them messy. Barclay didn’t like to leave important details to paralegals or even other lawyers. Legal research was one thing, but unearthing evidence was another. Sometimes a lawyer had to get his hands dirty. You never knew when you might find something you didn’t even know you were looking for. And you didn’t always let anyone know where you were looking either.

The air thickened with purple. Twilight softened the gaunt land of splintered peaks, torn valleys, and hot skies. But Barclay knew that beneath the apparent tranquility remained a harsh reality. The desert imbued everything with an insatiable drive to endure—indeed, to prevail. Including his law firm.

Barclay, Harrington & Merchant wasn’t big, not by Phoenix standards, but it was a force in Pinnacle Peak. Barclay knew there were those who would undermine all the hard work that had gone into building it into a premier boutique practice.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror where the reflection of a dually’s hood loomed large. Barclay could see the pickup was pulling a horse trailer, one of those stock models designed to carry a half-dozen horses, head to tail. He wondered if the equine passengers were watching the traffic zoom by, too.

In the morning he would have to make a move in the KB Enterprises case. Schedule more depositions, respond to the latest motion for summary—

He looked again at the rearview mirror. What the—? Before he could check the side view, brakes screeched like a horse’s panicked whinny. There was a crunching thump followed by a metallic scraping, and then the Mercedes was skidding and turning and tipping.

Barclay’s head smacked against the driver’s window as the road cartwheeled in front of him. Images of the people at his firm—they were all family to him—tumbled unbidden through his mind. Forrest Whitford—how had he let such a stiff advance so far in the litigation department? Jerry Dan Kovacs—a crackerjack lawyer, a kid with a great future. Trudy Cummings ticking off clients with her Equal Opportunity Annoyer t-shirt. Sydney Gardner with dark circles under sad eyes. Young Joe McGuinness . . . first thing tomorrow he’d tell him—

There was a flash. A rush of hot air followed by fire roiled over him. Within a minute the Mercedes was a car-be-cue, and all Barclay’s worries had gone up in flames. Barclay, too.

Chapter One of False Fortune →
Chapter One of Family Claims →
Chapter One of Spurred Ambition →

False Fortune: Chapter One

Monday, November 2

“I think we’re being followed.”

Hannah Dain adjusted her rearview mirror, trying to get a better view of the driver in the white SUV. Looking for a license plate would be pointless—Arizona didn’t require them in the front.

“Of course we are,” Shelby said. “This is the only road around the lake.”

“I mean the car behind us. I saw it when we stopped for gas.”

Her sister glanced over her shoulder, then rolled her eyes. “At the one station this side of town. Do you know how many SUVs there are in this state, especially white ones? Stop being paranoid.” Shelby consulted the map print-out on her lap. “Anyway, we’re almost at the fry bread stand.”

“If you say so.”

They hadn’t seen a road sign for at least twenty minutes, not even a mile marker. In this part of the desert, land took a long time to change. If you didn’t know where you were going, you didn’t belong out here, Hannah thought.

The grill of the white SUV filled the side-view mirror, shining through the words stenciled in the glass: Caution: objects in this mirror may be closer than they appear.

No kidding, Hannah said to herself. If the hulking vehicle were any nearer, she’d be able to see the bugs splatted on its chromed front. She pressed down on the Subaru’s accelerator, pushing the needle on the speedometer from fifty to fifty-nine. Landscape rushed by in a blur of desert colors—sagebrush green, red rock, yellow sand. The SUV grew smaller in the mirror until it looked like a toy car.

Shelby grabbed the door handle. “Hey! Slow down! These curves are making me sick.”

Hannah eased up on the gas. The tortuous road was called El Espinazo del Diablo—the Devil’s Backbone—and ran along an arête, with canyons nearing a hundred feet deep dropping off to either side. The canyon to the south was filled with volcanic rock dotted with cacti, the one to the north with water. The latter was dubbed Lake Lagunita, one of those bilingually redundant names like Table Mesa and Calle Road that Hannah found so annoying.

They came up on another vehicle. Hannah checked for oncoming cars, then steered around a pickup with a sheep in its bed. Unlike the four-lane parkway that carried casino patrons to the west side of the rez—the Tohono O’odham Indian Community—the road to the south entrance was single lane, and cars came at one other at great speed. Most of the traffic was tribe members, and alcohol-fueled crashes were frequent.

“So tell me more about your case,” Hannah said.

All Shelby had said during last night’s phone call was that she was co-counsel in a toxic tort case involving radiation contamination, and needed to video the old mines that had been used as dump sites. The mines were on the rez, reachable only by a barely-maintained axle-busting dirt track—impassable via Shelby’s red sports convertible, but no barrier to Hannah’s trusty Subaru wagon. As Shelby had never learned to work a stick shift, Hannah would have to drive, too.

They were heading for the eastern shore of Lake Lagunita, directly opposite the area where Hannah paddled most mornings before work. She had taken up kayaking as physical therapy for her twice-injured shoulder. The manmade lake straddled the boundary between Pinnacle Peak and the rez, and non-tribe members were restricted to the town-owned side, near the casino.

Her hard-plastic boat strapped to the roof, Hannah had met her sister at the boathouse that morning. Now they were on the south side of the lake, halfway to their destination.

“I don’t know all that much. Daddy just told me about it,” Shelby said.

Richard Dain was on leave from the firm, serving as a special prosecutor in a federal case back East. Dain & Daughters employed only four attorneys. With Olivia Parrish still on sabbatical in Africa and Hannah specializing in business law, Richard’s pending cases had become Shelby’s responsibility.

“Where did the radiation come from?”

“In the 1950s the tribe let the Department of Defense test some top-secret project on the rez,” Shelby said. “Probably an atomic bomb, but no one will say for sure. Whatever it was, leftover uranium ended up being dumped into old mine shafts, and poisoned the groundwater. We represent the tribe members who lived next to the dump sites and drank the water. Lead counsel is Franklin Rowley. He and Daddy went to law school together.”

“Toxic waste? Mass tort? Wow. Sounds like one of Elizabeth’s trials.”

Hannah regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Their mother wasn’t an easy topic between the two sisters, and recent discoveries had made things even more complicated for Hannah. She had yet to tell Shelby about Elizabeth’s affair—the one that had produced Hannah—or about her newly-discovered half-sister, Anuya.

And Hannah planned to keep the secret for a while. Never close in the past, she and Shelby were finally intersecting, with a wobbly “not-quite-friendship” the result. In fact, since Hannah had rejoined the firm last month, Shelby had been almost nice to her younger sibling. Hannah didn’t want her recent discoveries to jeopardize their fledgling relationship.

Besides, given how rocky things had been with Shelby, Hannah wasn’t all that sure how she felt about having another sister. She and Anuya had exchanged several emails, and Hannah was content to leave it at that for now.

Shelby’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Do you think she would have been a good mother?”

Hannah blinked. Elizabeth Dain had died within days of giving birth to Hannah, twenty-eight years ago. “I . . . I don’t know,” she said.

“Everyone says she loved her work. And Daddy, too.”

Hannah winced, then hoped Shelby hadn’t noticed.

“But no one ever talks about her as a parent,” her sister continued.

Was Shelby trying to tell her she knew about the affair? About Anuya? Hannah fixed her eyes on the line where the pavement disappeared into the horizon. “You were only two when she died, Shelby. She didn’t have a lot of time to be a mom.”

Hannah steered the Subaru around a pothole and the conversation back to a safer topic.

“Isn’t the government going to say the radiation came from uranium that was already in the ground? How are you going to prove the contamination is the DOD’s fault?” Hannah knew most of the radioactive ore used during the nuclear era came from mines in the Southwest. The tribe’s water supply could have been polluted through natural causes.

“We don’t have to. The government admitted liability, supposedly because of national security, though what can be so important fifty years later is beyond me. Franklin thinks it’s because private contractors—who are also big political contributors—want to start mining on the rez again.”

“For more uranium? I thought we won the arms race,” Hannah said.

“This is about fuel for nuclear power plants. China and India are building reactors like crazy, and our government is pushing nuclear energy as an alternative to oil.”

“So what will the victims get?”

“Anyone who can prove damages is entitled to reparations. Apparently, the side effects of radiation poisoning are pretty ghastly—nerve damage, paralysis, blindness. Franklin thinks video of the mines and the plaintiffs’ houses will make the jury more sympathetic. He wants to remind them of how things were on the rez before the casino.”

Housing, schools, hospitals—Hannah knew they had all been made possible by the ka-ching! of slot machines and the clatter of chips on poker tables. Only after her temporary job with the tribe had she seen the dark side of such wealth.

A tote bag decorated with a designer’s logo was at Shelby’s feet. She took an atomizer from an outside pocket and spritzed both sides of her neck, something French and flowery.

Hannah wrinkled her nose. “Is that perfume?”

“Of course. I would never use eau de toilette. Want some?”

“No!” Hannah lowered the window halfway. “You’re stinking up the car.”

“And that would be a bad thing?”

With an expression of distaste, Shelby picked up a half-empty Gatorade bottle from the passenger-side footwell and set it in the cup holder. She glanced around the car’s interior, taking in the paddling suit draped over the back seat, Post-its bearing scribbled training times stuck to the glove box, the partially-eaten PowerBar protruding from the dashboard cubby next to an iPod with its headphone wires in a tangle. “You look ready for your Modern Squalor magazine photo shoot.”

Hannah grinned. “I like my spaces to have a lived-in feeling.”

Shelby snorted. “Don’t you mean homeless?”

“This car is a temple to athletic endeavor.”

“Not a religion I’d belong to.” Shelby reached into the tote bag again, this time taking out a camcorder. She touched a button on the silver case and a lens emerged.

“Cool. Is that yours?” Hannah asked.

Shelby squinted through the viewfinder. “Jake’s.” The corners of her mouth curved upward. “Works indoors, even with the curtains drawn.”

Hannah held up a hand in mock disgust. “I so didn’t want to know that.”

Jake Lyman was an EMT and volunteer firefighter whom Shelby had met while she was in rehab. Jake had been inspecting the premises for fire-code compliance. Even in sweats and no make-up, Hannah’s sister was a head-turner.

What had surprised Hannah was that Shelby had given Jake a second look. From blue-collar stock, he wasn’t her sister’s usual date material. And Hannah had been dubious about a relationship that began while her sister was supposed to be climbing the twelve steps. But the romance had taken hold, and was still going strong after two months, a long time in Shelby-years. Hannah was fine with it—she liked Jake. Maybe the new boyfriend, not the stint in rehab, was the reason for her sister’s change in attitude toward her?

Romance was not on Hannah’s agenda, at least not soon. She had broken up with Cooper Smith—for the second time—at the conclusion of the tumultuous events surrounding her brief career as a contract lawyer for the Tohono O’odham tribe six weeks ago. Too many pending family issues left her no time for someone else, she had told herself.

The road curved along the shoreline, and Hannah glanced at the lake. The water was green, the same shade as Cooper’s eyes. She remembered what it felt like to lose herself in their depths and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

“So are you and Jake going to move in together?”

“Why would you ask that?” Shelby’s tone was sharp.

Hannah glanced at her sister, surprised. “Because he spends nearly every night at your place. That is, when you’re not at his. Or is the reason you’re wearing that gray suit two days in a row just because you like it so much?”

“Not that it’s any of your business—” Shelby’s eyes widened. “Look out!”

Hannah yanked her attention back to the road. Two mountain bikers peddled side-by-side, straddling the shoulder line. She jerked the wheel and the Subaru swung wide, narrowly missing the inside cyclist. In the rearview mirror she saw one of them raise his hand. But instead of the expected finger, he gave her a friendly wave. Eyes still on the mirror, Hannah noticed the white SUV had gained ground again. She watched it swerve around the cyclists, then shifted her attention back to the road ahead.

Shelby pressed a hand against her stomach. “I’m not feeling so great. Do you have any water?”

“No, but you can have the rest of that Gatorade.”

Shelby looked at the lime-colored contents of the bottle and shuddered. “Now I am going to be sick.” She peered through the bug-dotted windshield. “There’s the fry bread stand. Pull in. They’ll have something”—she forced a swallow—“not so fluorescent.”

Hannah steered the Subaru across the opposite lane and onto a swathe of gravel. The car crunched to a stop, and Shelby threw open the door and dashed for the portable toilet next to the makeshift stall. A quarter mile ahead was the south entrance to the rez, where only tribe members and permit holders were allowed to enter.

Hannah got out of the car more slowly. She pressed her hands into the small of her back and stretched, watching the white SUV approach. Its speed slackened, and for a moment Hannah thought it was going to turn in. But then the car sped up again, and it roared by the turnout. As it passed, Hannah saw that the blond woman behind the wheel was talking on a cell phone.

No wonder she was tailgating. Hannah headed toward the fry bread stand, conceding that Shelby was right about the driver of the SUV. The events of the past summer and fall notwithstanding, there were enough bad people in the world without her having to invent them.

The fry bread stand—a latillo roof supported by four posts—leaned to one side, looking as though one more puff of wind would push it over. Two wooden tables with mismatched chairs were arranged in front of a flour-dusted counter. Sitting in one of the chairs was a small woman with skin the color of reddish earth. Broad-shouldered and wide-hipped, she was shaped like the jar of flour next to the griddle. A sign tacked to one of the posts said NEVER TOO HOT, NEVER TOO COLD. In smaller writing were the words in winter after HOT and in summer after COLD.

The Indian woman stood.

“Fry bread? Very good.”

There was a pyramid of juice containers and bottled water in a Styrofoam container on the floor, ice cubes puddling around them.

“Just a water and an orange juice, please.” Hannah opened her wallet.

“Can make with saguaro jam. Or like taco. Very good.”

“The drinks will be fine.”

The woman shrugged as if to say it was Hannah’s loss for passing on the fry bread, and took the bills.

“Keep the change,” Hannah said.

The woman shrugged again. “No coins.”

Carrying the water and juice, Hannah walked over to the portable toilet’s door and rapped on it.

“Shelby, you okay?”

“Go away,” came the muffled reply, followed by a retching sound.

Shelby was barely a month out of rehab. Hannah knew post-discharge therapy often included a drug that would induce nausea if alcohol was ingested. Had Shelby relapsed? Hannah raised her hand to knock again, then paused.

Not that it’s any of your business. Shelby’s words echoed in her head. Although things between them were better, they were still far from great. Hannah didn’t know her sister’s favorite color, what movies made her cry—if any even did. How could she ask Shelby if she were drinking again?

Hannah turned away from the toilet door. She spotted another sign propped against a boulder. WATCH OUT FOR RATTLESNAKES. Doubting this one was a joke, she kept her ear tuned for the telltale buzz as she walked toward the far end of the turnout.

It was one of those perfect November mornings, the kind that could almost made her forget the summer and its sledgehammer heat. Horsetails of clouds trailed across nearby peaks, and the air was laden with the soapy pungence of creosote. A hummingbird cased her orange shirt, rejected it, and retired to a nearby bush.

A low wooden guard rail, more decorative than functional, rimmed the gravel parking area. On its other side, the ground dropped abruptly away. Hannah walked to the rail and looked over. Sixty feet below, Lake Lagunita lapped at the cliff base. A band of white mineral-stained rock separated the green of the lake from the red canyon walls. There was something surreal about the huge quantity of water and a nearly-fifty-mile coastline in the middle of the parched landscape. The water was relaxed and clear, and Hannah could see the contours of the canyon that had been drowned when the river collected behind Diablo Dam. The gray boulders strewn across the bottom looked like sleeping turtles.

An engine growl broke the quiet, and Hannah glanced over her shoulder. The white SUV came into view again. It passed her and turned in to the graveled area, stopping on the other side of the fry bread stand next to the Subaru.

The blond driver got out and walked to a mass of brittlebush next to the drop-off. Squinting into the sun, Hannah made out a descanso tucked among gray-green leaves. The roadside memorials to accident victims dotted the Southwest’s highways, reminders that mass times velocity squared often had a horrible outcome.

Hannah watched the woman take a square of blue from her purse and place it under a rock next to the shrine. She stood for a moment with her head bowed, then got back into the SUV. The heavy vehicle lumbered back onto the pavement toward town.

The door to the portable toilet was still closed. Hannah debated knocking again, but instead walked over to the descanso.

A bunch of poppies was propped against the base of the white cross. Heads heavy in the heat, the flowers looked as if they were panting. Next to them was a blue envelope, Garth written on the front in the same script as the Garth Weller that had been hand-lettered on the wooden crosspiece. Curiosity tugged at Hannah, but she left the envelope where it was.

“Howdy, Hannah!” boomed a male voice.

She turned to see the cyclists they had passed on the road bumping over the gravel toward her. The two men braked to a stop, unclipped their pedals, and took off their helmets.

“Hi, Jerry Dan,” Hannah said, recognizing the generous grin and just-woke-up hair.

Jerry Dan’s grin widened. “I thought that was your green Subaru.”

He laid his bike on the gravel, careful not to scratch the titanium tubing. Hannah’s gaze roved over the aerodynamic arcs and top-of-the-line components, then cut to the Port-A-Potty. She was relieved to see that the door was still closed.

Jerry Dan Kovacs was a trial lawyer with another firm in town. Hannah had met him three months ago, when he bought her mountain bike through an online auction—the same bike Shelby had given her a scant two weeks earlier. The gift was a replacement for the bike Hannah had lost as a result of last summer’s events. But Hannah was done with mountain-biking, the sport too grim a reminder of those terrible days. Unable to bear having the bike around, she had sold it—without telling Shelby.

“What are you doing way out here?” Hannah asked.

“Training for the State Orienteering Championships.” Jerry Dan indicated his companion. “Dr. Glouster’s a prof at ASU and the course designer. The race is going to be on the rez this year.”

The other man nodded a greeting. “Ed Glouster.”

“Hi,” Hannah said. “So what’s orienting?”

“Orienteering,” Jerry Dan said, emphasizing the ee sound. “You use a compass and a topo map to navigate through a series of control points, usually on bike or foot, sometimes skis. The person with the fastest time wins.”

“Sounds like an ordinary race to me,” Hannah said.

“Not exactly. The course is kept secret until the day of the race, and has a staggered start, so there’s no following other competitors. You choose your route based on the map, and the best way isn’t always the shortest distance between two control points. So not only do you have to be fast, you have to be able to navigate, too. Gives a sports klutz like me a chance. Plus now I’m riding a hot bike, thanks to you.” He patted the top tube affectionately. “Me and Silver are going for the win.”

“Silver? Not Trigger?”

As Hannah had learned the day he picked up the bike, Jerry Dan was a fan of all things cowboy. Roy Rogers was a particular favorite—she recalled something about a petition for an honorary Oscar. The Lone Ranger had merited only a passing mention.

Jerry Dan looked pained. “Trigger was a palomino.” At Hannah’s puzzled expression, he added, “A gold-colored horse.”

Hannah glanced at the bike’s titanium frame, gleaming white in the flat light.

“Hi ho,” she said, stifling a smile.

A door banged, loud in the still air. Hannah jerked her head to see Shelby standing in front of the blue cubicle.

“Gotta go,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Glouster. Good luck at the race, Jerry Dan.”

Hannah hurried over the gravel toward the fry bread stand, wishing she had donated her bike to charity. Shelby stood in the meager shade of the latillos. Hannah held up the water bottle and juice carton.

“Orange or not orange?”

Shelby chose the water. Lifting up her pale hair, she pressed the bottle against her neck with an unconscious grace that Hannah no longer envied, then nodded toward Glouster and Jerry Dan. The two men were looking at the descanso, their bikes still on the ground beside them.

“Who are they?”

“Those cyclists we passed on the road.” Hannah popped the tab on the juice container and gulped down the pulpy liquid. Winter in Arizona was like summer everywhere else—temperatures in the seventies. And being near the lake always seemed to make her thirstier. She finished off the juice, tossed the empty container into a rusty drum next to the counter, then burped. Catching Shelby’s frown of disapproval, she made herself burp again.

Her sister sighed. “Can we get going? Some of us have other things to do.”

Sweat shone on Shelby’s ivory skin, and Hannah noticed that her sister’s hand shook slightly as she sipped from the bottle of water. Did Shelby’s other things to do include getting a drink? Worried, Hannah thumbed the remote.

Shelby opened the door on the passenger side and sat down. “Do you think we’re not close because we didn’t have a mother?”

Hannah put a hand on the door frame to steady herself. She and Shelby didn’t have these type of conversations. In fact, until her sister’s stint in rehab, they hadn’t talked much at all.

The automatic response—Of course we’re close—pushed against her teeth. But seeing Shelby’s expression, Hannah bit back the denial and opted for the partial truth instead.

“I don’t know. Probably didn’t help that I wasn’t around much.”

From fourth grade on, Hannah had attended boarding school back East, going on to the Ivy League and law school. After graduation three years ago, she had come to Arizona and joined the family firm. But until recently, she might as well have stayed away for all the warmth shown her by Richard and Shelby. Their aloofness had stung. And despite Hannah’s newfound understanding of family history, it still did.

“But now you’re staying? At the firm, I mean.” Shelby dropped her eyes and fiddled with the camcorder.

Something twisted inside Hannah. Until you find out my secrets and want me to leave. “I’ll be around,” she said.

Insects hummed around them, their buzz gradually drowned out by the sound of an approaching vehicle. The now-familiar white SUV hove into view, moving fast.

The big truck veered into the parking lot. Fishtailing on the gravel, it barreled toward the Subaru. The same woman was at the wheel, shoulders hunched, hooded eyes staring straight ahead.

She’s going to hit us. Instinctively, Hannah grabbed Shelby’s arm and yanked her sister from the car.

“Hey!” Shelby exclaimed as she went sprawling.

The SUV banged into the Subaru’s bumper, splintering the plastic taillight cover and denting the metal. Unhindered by a parking brake, Hannah’s car began to roll forward. The SUV, now heading for Jerry Dan and Ed, didn’t slow.

“Jerry Dan! Look out!” Hannah yelled.

The two men scattered while the SUV stayed its course. Just missing the bicycles, the big vehicle plowed over the descanso and into the stand of brittle brush. Branches scraped against its door panels and snagged on its side mirrors as the SUV cleared the chaparral and crashed through the guardrail.

“Oh my God,” Shelby whispered.

Hannah watched, slack-jawed, as the SUV ran out of ground. The vehicle plunged over the cliff edge, trailing wisps of brittle brush. Seconds later, a belly-flopping splash careened off the canyon walls.

“Hannah! Your car!” Jerry Dan shouted.

The Subaru, helped by momentum from the slight downhill, was still rolling. Hannah broke into a run. If she could just get to the still-open door, jump in, and pull the emergency brake . . .

The Subaru was twenty feet from the edge of the cliff. Hannah ran faster. She had pulled even with the rear window when her foot slipped on the gravel. The car kept going as she fell to her knees.

“No!” she cried as the front bumper hit the guard rail. The flimsy wood gave way.

The Subaru teetered on the edge for a moment before succumbing to gravity. With a sickening scrape of its undercarriage against the rock, it slid out of sight.

Chapter One of Family Claims →
Chapter One of Spurred Ambition →
Chapter One of Heir Apparent →