Page 158

“The fish is great,” Coyne said to Mary Dove.

“Fresh as can be,” the woman responded.

And Colter wondered when on earth his mother had found the time to go shopping.

They talked about the cases against the suspects and how Colter and Debi Starr had deduced that the real estate developer was the ultimate perp.

“He was stupid. His triggerman, Waylon Foley, went throughburner phones every six hours or so. Gabris kept the same one he’d had for days. The call log has dozens of other numbers the police are checking out. Mostly untraceable burners, but there’s a landline in Calexico.”

Annie Coyne gave him a questioning look.

“Town on the, yes, California-Mexico border. Small place, not much happening there. The only thing of note is that it’s near the All-American Canal. That’s the only source of water for all of Imperial County, east of San Diego and L.A. Runs from the Colorado River to the Salton Sea. Eighty-two miles. Longest irrigation canal in the world. If that canal’s sabotaged, or the Colorado runs dry, a billion tons of agricultural products disappear. FBI and Homeland are very interested in what Gabris’s connection is to the place.”

“Water,” Annie Coyne whispered, as if the word were an obscenity. She had eaten the least of all of them.

After they had finished and were clearing the dishes, Mary Dove’s phone lit up with a text. She looked at Mrs. Petaluma and asked, “Can I use your computer again?”

“Of course.”

Mary Dove said to the others, “Come with me.” A curious tone in her voice. Mysterious and important.

Dorion and Colter shared a glance.

They all walked into the den, which was even more jam-packed than the rest of the house with memorabilia and art, most of it involving Native people and sites. Mrs. Petaluma sat at her crowded but orderly desk and turned on a computer. A large flat-screen monitor came to life. She began typing quickly.

The woman glanced up at Colter, who stood nearby. She said, “I see that expression, Mr. Shaw. Is this where you tread into a minefield, thinking, oh, an elderly Indigenous woman using the internet?”

“No,” he said, gently pushing back. “What I’m thinking is, you don’t often seeanyonerunning Linux as an operating system.”

A shrug. “Open source. So much better than Windows or Apple. Mary Dove? What’s the URL?”

Their mother held up her phone, displaying the text she’d just received.

It turned out to be a Zoom invitation. Mrs. Petaluma typed in the URL and then rose, giving her seat to Mary Dove, who sat and, seeing herself in the camera, smoothed an errant strand of hair.

A moment later they were looking at a man wearing a pale shirt with the top button undone and the collar spread wide, a loosened gold and black tie hanging low. His hair was the opposite of Mary Dove’s—frizzy and disordered.

“Mrs. Shaw.”

“Mr. Grossman. I have some other attendees.” She gave the names of those present.

“Hello, everyone.”

The office was that of a lawyer, Colter could see. The back wall was lined with case reporters—in their distinctive beige and red hue that every law student and lawyer in the country would recognize instantly. He could see too that the man was in San Francisco; Colter caught the Bay out one of the man’s windows. The view featured a sliver of the Rock—Alcatraz.

Mary Dove said, “Barry handles many of my legal matters. Now.” Nodding to his digital form. “Your text said you have some information for us.”

“I do. Now, no lawyer on earth is going to give you a one hundred percent answer to a legal issue, but I think we’re in the ninety-fifth percentile on this one.”

Again, Shaw and Dorion shared a questioning glance. She lifted her palms, as if to say, “I have no idea.”

Their mother said to the lawyer, “I haven’t said anything to my friends and family. Perhaps you could fill everyone in.”

“Of course. Mrs. Shaw became aware of a potential legal situationtoday, and she asked me to look into it. Now, you mentioned Ms. Coyne’s presence. Where are you hiding, Ms. Coyne?”

The woman frowned in curiosity and stepped in front of the camera.

“Hello.” Her voice was uncertain.