The Girl with Braided Hair (A Wind River Reservation Myste) by Margaret Coel

of the time, they finger the murderer, but sometimes the evidence is missing—the hard proof they need to get the murderer convicted. So, case remains unsolved until…”
    “Someone comes forward. A witness or accomplice willing to testify.”
    “You got it. We’re looking at a murder that took place more than thirty years ago. Witnesses and accomplices could have moved on, could be anywhere. Could be dead, for that matter. So we got an old homicide with a victim most likely not from the area and nobody around who knows what happened.”
    “But if you could get her DNA,” Vicky said. She could see the faces of the women in her office, the dark eyes shadowed with fear and worry. Another woman murdered. No one held accountable.
    “Yeah, and what good’s that gonna do? What are we gonna compare it to? Same with a dental workup. We’ll get one done, and maybe we’ll get lucky and find her dental records. Don’t count on it.”
    “What about a facial reconstruction? You could distribute her photo to newspapers in the region, distribute it to all the reservations…”
    “We’re working on it now. Soon’s we get the reconstruction, we’ll distribute the photos everywhere, but I gotta remind you, this is a cold, cold case. This is a block of ice at the bottom of a frozen lake. Like I said, everything changes in thirty years. We have to be realistic about our chances.”
    “Is that what you want me to tell the women on the rez?”
    “Tell them we’re as concerned as they are. We want to find the SOB who did it. We’re never gonna close the case. But unless we catch a break, unless somebody knows something or heard something, unless we get something to go on…”
    He shrugged.
    “I’ll be in touch,” Vicky said, getting to her feet. She worked her way around the cramped space to the door. The detective was already there, holding it open and nodding her into the corridor.
    “I’ll see you out,” he said.
     

    VICKY SPOTTED THE white paper on the dashboard inside her Jeep as she crossed the asphalt lot. She reached the Jeep and stopped. Past the sunlight dancing in the windshield, she could make out her name printed in black on the front of an envelope. She glanced at the doors. The Jeep was still locked, just as she’d left it.
    She looked around. There was no one else in the parking lot, nothing but a row of parked sedans and pickups with the white vehicles of the sheriff’s department at the far end. The sound of a lawn mower whirred in the distance. The wind blowing over the asphalt was hot and sweet-smelling with the odor of newly-mown grass. A dump truck lumbered down the street, turned right, and disappeared behind the bungalows across the street.
    Vicky glanced back at the massive, beige stone building. Sunlight winked in the blank-looking windows. Nothing moved; there was no sign of life. The building might have been vacant. She fished her key out of her bag and pressed the open button on the remote. The lock buttons jumped up, and Vicky slid onto the seat and reached for the envelope. The air inside was so hot, she could hardly breathe. Leaving the door open, she ran a finger under the envelope’s flap and pulled out the sheet of paper folded in three. In the center of the paper, were thick, black capital letters: STOP.
    Vicky got out, slammed the door shut and hurried back to the building. In the entry, she told the blond receptionist that she had to see Coughlin again.
    “He might’ve left,” the woman said. “I think he was going out.”
    “Call him for me, please,” Vicky said. The man hadn’t left. There was no one in the parking lot.
    The receptionist had the receiver pressed to one ear. “That lawyer again. Says she has to see you.” She dropped the receiver. “He’s on the way. He has appointments, you know, so I hope you won’t be taking too much more of his…”
    The door on the left swung open. “What’d you forget?”
    Vicky stepped into the corridor and waited until