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around.”
    Leaphorn nodded. “So you wanted to see if Delonie would return to the scene of his crime?”
    “Not exactly that, because it couldn’t be his crime.

    THE SHAPE SHIFTER
    67
    If it was a crime. I just thought he’d be, ah, well, let’s say, curious.”
    “Seems logical, since Delonie just got out,” Leaphorn said. “But here’s the way my mind works. Delonie knows Shewnack got away from that Handy robbery with a bagful of cash. Delonie probably knows no large sums were found with the body. Shewnack wouldn’t have kept a big bundle in his pockets while he was working here.
    He probably intended to rob Totter’s too, when he could set it up properly. So there’s a good chance that Shewnack found himself a place right here, or near enough to be handy, to stash away his funds.”
    “Exactly,” Garcia said. “And Delonie would come looking for it.” He was grinning. “I guess us cops all get into the habit of thinking the same way,” he said. “I’ll bet we find some places where somebody’s been digging.” They were bumping up the access road now toward what fire, weather, and inattention had left of Totter’s Trading Post.
    “Or maybe still digging,” Leaphorn said. He pointed past the wall of the main structure to a vehicle protruding from behind it. “Dark green. Looks like a Cherokee.” As he spoke, a man stepped through the empty doorway of the building. He stood staring at them. A tall man in a plaid shirt, much-faded blue jeans, long billed cap, and sunglasses. His hair needed trimming, and so did a short but scraggly beard.
    “I do believe I recognize Mr. Tomas Delonie,” Kelly Garcia said. “Which means this is going to save me the trouble of driving all over looking for him.”

    9
    Tomas Delonie’s reaction to the arrival of a police car and a deputy sheriff was just what Leaphorn had learned to expect from ex-cons out on parole. He was a big man, a little stooped, looking tense, slightly defensive, and generally unfriendly. Not moving, hands by his sides. Just waiting for whatever fate had in store for him.
    Leaphorn sat watching. Garcia got out, shut the door behind him, said: “Mr. Delonie? You remember me?” The man nodded. “Yes.”
    “Deputy Sheriff Kelly Garcia,” Garcia said. “Glad to see you again. I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you.”
    “Talk?” Delonie said. “About what?”
    “About this place here,” Garcia said with a sweeping gesture. “About what happened here?”
    “I don’t know a damn thing about that,” Delonie said. “I was up there in the New Mexico State Prison.

    70
    TONY HILLERMAN
    Near Santa Fe. Long way from here when that was happening.”
    Leaphorn got out of the car, nodded to Delonie.
    “This is Mr. Joe Leaphorn,” Garcia said. “He’s interested in what happened here too.”
    “Oh?” Delonie said, looking slightly surprised. “I wonder why that would be? Is he an insurance man? Or a cop? Or what?”
    “Just curious, I guess, about what could be found.
    And so are you,” Garcia said. “Or you wouldn’t be here.
    So we have something in common to talk about.” Delonie nodded. Looking at Leaphorn.
    Leaphorn smiled. “Have you found anything yet?” Delonie’s expression abruptly changed from his stolid neutral pose. His mouth twisted, his eyes pinched shut, his head bowed. “What do you mean by that?” Delonie said, his voice strangled.
    “I meant, maybe you might have been looking for something Ray Shewnack might have left behind for you.”
    “That dirty son of a bitch,” Delonie said, the words pronounced with heavy, well-spaced emphasis. “He wouldn’t leave anything for me.”
    “You mean Raymond Shewnack?” Leaphorn said.
    “That bastard.” Delonie wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, looked up at Leaphorn. “No, I didn’t find a damned thing.”
    Garcia cleared his throat. “What are you looking for?”
    “This is the place where the federals claim he got burned up, isn’t it? I