Free Mesozoic Murder by Christine Gentry

she could search Nick’s apartment for clues. A spasm of anxiety rocked her stomach.
    Alex was right about Dorbandt. The detective wouldn’t like her snooping into his case, pawing through potential evidence, and withholding clues under the mantle of performing a good deed for Nick’s widow.
    And what about the repercussions to the Pangaea Society if she got in trouble with the law? If her behavior brought down the wrath of the museum association, the Opel funds would be history, too. Last but not least, there was the issue of her father’s stand-off with the sheriff’s department. Did she want to run the risk of causing problems for him with the county cops?
    Ansel felt Nick’s gold key sandwiched inside her hip pocket. Her eyes glistened with tears. For better or worse, she couldn’t turn back now.

Chapter 7
    â€œGive me the eyes to see and the strength to understand.”
    Black Elk, Oglala Sioux
    Ansel’s emotions churned her abused stomach as she drove east toward Nick’s apartment. She didn’t know the true Nicholas Capos; the man who quit his job, deserted his wife, and got murdered. How could she be so naive?
    Visceral hurt speared through her. A niggling inner voice suggested that Nick must have viewed her as less than human. Usable. Perhaps disposable. This demon of doubt had ridden on her shoulders since the day she’d been pushed into that icy pond.
    It had been Thanksgiving day. Her father and mother had given a small party for her parent’s closest friends and relatives, and there were a lot of children at the ranch. She’d been delighted to have other kids around. As a five-year-old only child, this was a special treat which made the festive holiday that much more exciting.
    After everyone had finished a meal of turkey with all the fixings and the adults were clearing the table, she and five other children had run off to play. It was Rusty, the eight-year-old son of her father’s best friend, who convinced all of them to put on their jackets and sneak out of the house with a fishing rod he’d taken from her father’s study.
    At first she hadn’t wanted to go. The ground was covered with a light dusting of snow, and she knew it was a bad move following a boy who had taken the fishing tackle without asking permission to use it. Still this was an adventure. She didn’t want to be left behind while they headed for the stock pond in the pasture behind the house.
    They went through a cattle gate and onto the creaking, iced-over pond, slipping and sliding. Rusty had pulled out a linen napkin with some turkey to use as bait. Then he’d chipped a hole in the ice with his pocket knife while everyone watched. She’d known for sure that this was very, very bad and when she’d said so, Rusty had turned on her in a flash.
    He’d pushed her hard, and she’d fallen on her stomach. Then Rusty had grabbed her by her parka hood and called her a red wiggler. Indian bait. He had laughed as he’d jabbed the hook through her coat hood and tossed her into the hole. Everyone had laughed as she slid through the tiny opening like a pebble down a tube. When her weight had snapped the hook from the taunt fishing line, they weren’t laughing anymore. She had sunk like a stone, her waterlogged parka a deadly cocoon squeezing her body.
    That’s when she’d realized for the first time that she was somehow different from other children. Why exactly had mystified her, even as she flailed to reach them for help. She hadn’t understood Rusty’s violent hate of her, his snarling, ugly face. What had she done to make him so mad? Why had he hurt her?
    Only weeks later, after her mother had explained in calm and soothing tones about her heritage and how some people would react to her, did she get an answer to her questions. People saw only her skin, not her soul. Had Nick done the same thing?
    No, Ansel decided vehemently. Nick might