Blood Echo

by Rice, Christopher

  For the first time, Lacey looks at Henricks. Luke tries to read her expression, but it’s not easy, given her injuries. There’s a kind of disappointment there, it seems. Or maybe it’s guilt. He can’t be sure. Either way, she’s staring at Henricks with an intensity that suggests if her eyes weren’t both in danger of swelling shut, she’d be glaring daggers at him. No matter what happens next, Henricks has lost the woman’s trust. Why couldn’t he have waited a bit longer before resorting to good cop/bad cop?

  “Is that a no?” Henricks asks.

  Lacey turns her attention to Luke. “Put him in a cell and I’ll talk.”

  “Yeah,” Henricks says, “with all due respect, that’s not how this works, ma’am. See, we wouldn’t even know what to charge him with because you won’t—Luke!”

  Luke’s past the ficus and moving swiftly toward reception when he hears the interview room door slam shut. Then Henricks is right on his heels. The dude’s already pegged the woman a liar, so if Luke’s going to do anything to get the story out of her, he’ll have to take the initiative. And before he thinks twice about the risks.

  “What the hell are you doing, Luke?”

  “We’re going to go talk to Jordy Clements.”

  “The hell we are. She’s a pillhead, Luke.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Let’s just say she’s known around town, OK?” Henricks says.

  “I’ve never seen her in holding.”

  “You don’t work every night of the week.”

  “Oh, OK. So, if I look for an arrest record on her, I’m going to find one?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m just saying, slow down.”

  “Why, because her boyfriend’s building a goddamn tunnel?”

  “You know how important that tunnel’s going to be to this town. Come on.”

  “Not important enough to let Jordy Clements beat up his girlfriend because you’re a chickenshit.”

  “Luke!”

  It was probably too far, calling Henricks a chickenshit in front of all their coworkers, but it’s not like any of them are rushing to disagree.

  “Are you coming or not?” Luke asks.

  “Where?”

  “Where is everybody on a Friday night? He’s probably at the Gold Mine.”

  “He doesn’t drink.”

  “What are you, best friends with this guy?”

  “I’m telling you, he’s known around town. And this will be known around town, too, if you make a big stink and there’s nothing to it.”

  “Well, then I should talk to Jordy and find out if there’s nothing to it, right?”

  “You can’t just throw him in a cell without charging him with anything because she said so.”

  “Who said anything about a cell? I’m just going to talk to him.”

  “I don’t believe that, Luke. You don’t just talk. You always . . . do stuff.”

  “Yeah, like my job. Are you coming or not?”

  “I’m not messing around with a guy like Jordy Clements just because your girlfriend walked out on you and you’re not dealing with it.”

  “You’re right. You’re not messing around with a guy like Jordy Clements because you think rich assholes should be above the law. Don’t let her leave that interview room.”

  Only once he’s out of the station and at the door to his cruiser does he realize Henricks never agreed to Luke’s final order. And, of course, when it comes to getting in bed with rich assholes, he’s a lot guiltier than Henricks. Or at least his new girlfriend is. But for now, no one in Altamira knows anything about that, and that’s how he’d like it to stay.

  When Luke was a boy, the Gold Mine Tavern was a hole-in-the-wall bar that served halfway decent burgers for lunch, before the same crew of evening regulars would roll in every night around happy hour. Luke’s mother visited the place only rarely before she got sick, and when she did, she never stayed for more than a vodka tonic or two. Afterward, she’d come home complaining that it still smelled like stale beer and the conversations were always the same—complaints about work, or the lack thereof, or endless chitchat about whatever new piece of California history the bar’s owner, Dan Soto, had hung on walls that already looked like a TGI Fridays devoted to the state’s rugged past.

  Luke returned home around half a year ago, tail between his legs, having decided that loyalty to his brother was more important than turning informant on the guy just so he could have a shot at his dream job with the FBI. Altamira’s new sheriff was an old friend of his mother’s, and she’d been happy to hire him. Back then, little about the town and its most popular watering hole had changed much since his youth. On his first few night patrols, he spotted the one bartender on duty closing the place down around eleven thirty, right after the last customer started their long, shuffling walk home.

  At the time he probably muttered something to himself about how it was good that some things stayed constant, even if they were just sad, lonely watering holes.

  Now, just a few months later, nothing about Altamira, or his life, is the same.

  The Gold Mine’s front door is fringed by cackling smokers he doesn’t recognize. Some of them have driven in from someplace else, drawn by Altamira’s messy nascent nightlife scene and the very real fact that the town’s tiny law enforcement office is barely equipped to contain it. A couple of them give his sheriff’s department uniform a wary eye. Then they do their best to look more sober than they are.

  It takes him a second to realize the wall of muscle standing ramrod straight next to the blacked-out glass door is a bouncer.

  A bouncer at the Gold Mine Tavern. A year ago, the idea would have seemed as absurd as a Bloomingdale’s opening up next to the Copper Pot.

  “Can I help you, deputy?” the bouncer asks.

  “Yeah. Move.”

  The bouncer complies, but not before giving Luke a look that suggests that in the new Altamira, bouncers might have more pull than cops.

  The music hits him in a deafening wave. It’s someone’s idea of country, but not his. The band’s out of tune and loud, like all they care about is being heard over the crowd at all costs. But everyone’s so drunk, they probably wouldn’t give a whit if the lumberjack-looking dudes on stage were yodeling a version of “Feelings.”

  Dan Soto, the Gold Mine’s owner, who just a few months ago spent most of his evenings playing cards with his buddies and listening to absolutely nothing happen on his police scanner, is running around behind the bar, sweating through his T-shirt as he frantically works backup for three newly hired female bartenders who are ringing up drink orders faster than Luke can eat tortilla chips. And he loves tortilla chips.

  Boomtown.

  The word never inspired dread in him before. But that’s what it does now.

  One of the bartenders pours a shot of tequila into the navel of a svelte young woman lying halfway across the bar, her feet propped on the stool in front of her. Midriff Girl wears a tube top and a licentious smile as a construction worker Luke recognizes from a drunk-driving stop—the guy smelled all right and only had a block to go, so Luke let him off with a warning—leans in and sucks the shot from her belly button while he’s cheered on by his drunk friends.

  Midriff Girl’s got a somewhat pretty face turned cartoonish by heavy makeup. This, combined with her skimpy, skintight outfit, makes her seem alien to Altamira, where blue jeans and sundresses are considered formal wear. No doubt she’s one of the new breed of working girl that’s moved into town to service the needs of the town’s new male population.

  Watching the woman almost as closely as Luke is, but from a small table near the opposite side of the bar, is Jordy Clements, the man Lacey Shannon just accused of beating her.

  Clements doesn’t even look buzzed. The pint glass in front of him is more than half-full. When his eyes leave Midriff Girl and he starts scanning the crowd, he does so with the cool, assessing gaze of someone who feels like he owns the place, which, Luke fears, in another few month
s, he just might.

  After the guy started strutting around Altamira like the new mayor, Luke did a little research on him. Jordy’s thirty years old, but the vertical knife-scar on his left cheek that comes dangerously close to his eye makes him look much older. He sports a high and tight haircut that keeps his long forehead exposed. He’s got a Marine Corps background, along with an honorable discharge. Luke suspects he landed the gig as project supervisor for the tunnel because his dad owns the company.

  There are two different construction crews in town—Clements and Murdoch. It’s easy to tell their men apart.

  Clements is responsible for building the tunnel to the Pacific Coast Highway, so while its crew is smaller in number, its members are honest-to-God miners. In another few weeks, after they’ve taken all the seismic readings and rock samples they need, the Clements crew will start drilling and blasting a hole through the heart of the mountains west of town—which means they can’t be bothered by claustrophobia, a fear of otherworldly darkness, or the very real possibility of a tunnel collapse. They’re rough and tough guys, each one of them capable of taking on the entire Murdoch Construction crew single-handed in a fight.

  The Murdoch guys, on the other hand, are mostly itinerant labor. They’re building the resort, which at present involves concrete, hammers, nails, and a whole lot of timber. The promontory on which the resort’s main building sits sports some jaw-dropping cliffs, so nerves of steel when it comes to heights has to be a job requirement.

  Luke’s about to tell Dan Soto to put the awful band on break, but just then the musicians start giving an ignored farewell speech. They step offstage to weak applause that barely rises over the din of rowdy conversation. Despite Luke’s quick and quiet approach, Jordy senses him coming and locks eyes with him when he’s only a few feet away.

  “Got some questions for you, Jordy,” Luke says.

  “Call me Mr. Clements and I’ll be happy to educate you, sir.”

  Jordy’s three burly companions know better than to laugh out loud, but they each give Luke their own version of a smirk crossed with a sneer.

  “I would, but I don’t see your dad anywhere around.”

  “That’s funny.” He reaches into his shirt pocket. He pulls out a pack of Camel Lights, shakes one free, and lights it. “You’re funny.”

  Even though smoking inside a bar has been illegal in California for over a decade now, no one seems to care about the cloud of smoke billowing between them.

  Except for Luke.

  “Jordy, I need you to come down to the station with me. I can either—”

  “Not gonna happen. Come on. Have a drink. I’m buying.”

  “I’m on duty, but thank you.”

  “Well, have a Diet Coke then, pansy.”

  “Pansy? What are you, a homophobe from the forties?”

  “Ah, don’t get all social justice on me. We’re just trying to have a good time. Right here. In this wonderful bar I am considering buying and expanding because I have fallen hopelessly in love with this town. Smoke?”

  Jordy shakes a cigarette half-free of the pack and extends it to Luke. Instead of taking it, Luke snatches the lit cigarette from Jordy’s other hand.

  “I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” he says.

  “Well, that’s a made-up allergy if I ever heard one.”

  “I’m also allergic to women walking into my station with black eyes.”

  “Your station? You sheriff now? What happened to Mona Sanchez?”

  “Jordy, get up and I’ll follow you out from a few paces and we can do the whole thing nice and quiet. How’s that sound?”

  “Or?”

  “You’ll know it when you feel it.”

  The pretense of good humor leaves Jordy’s expression. “I only smoke when I’m annoyed, and you are most certainly annoying me, Deputy Dawg.”

  Luke drops the cigarette to the floor and stamps it out under his foot.

  “You know what this is starting to look like?” Jordy says.

  “An arrest in the making.”

  “Ungratefulness.”

  “Station’s only two blocks away. If you’ve got nothing to hide, a trip there won’t cost you much.”

  “All I’m hiding is how much you’re pissing me off right now.”

  “Well, then let it all out, Jordy. I love honest conversation.”

  “Lacey and me are on and off. I set her up over in Trailer City so she could have a fresh start, a nice long way from her pill pushers down in LA. I’m trying to help her. Whatever crap she’s pulling with you is my compensation, I guess. No good deed and all that.”

  “Why help her? Why not just move on?”

  “Love is a funny thing, friend. And I’ve never been one to quit, even when the battle’s hard, know what I mean?”

  No doubt Jordy’s not-so-subtle reference to his military service is intended to distract. But Luke’s still stuck on the words Trailer City. God, he hates that name. It turns his stomach every time he hears it.

  Sure, they used to be empty fields with no mature trees, so maybe it’s good they’re being put to some kind of use. But the entire expanse of trailers and outhouses and tents has the look of a migrant city in a war-torn nation. And its new residents seem united in the belief that local law enforcement holds little sway inside its new and improvised borders. The whole place will most likely vanish as soon as all the construction’s done and the workers have moved on, but Luke’s not willing to consider it a free-for-all zone until then, and neither is his boss.

  “So why’s she lying if you’re being so helpful and all?” Luke asks.

  “We fight all the time, but I never raise my hand to a woman.”

  “So how’d she get two black eyes?”

  “I’m thinking a rock, maybe.”

  “You think she gave herself two black eyes. With a rock.”

  “You ever seen her mad before?”

  “She’s your girlfriend. Which means maybe you should have thought twice before dropping her in the middle of your temporary housing for your all-male crew.”

  “Oh, you think she’ll be in demand, huh?”

  “She’s an attractive young woman.”

  “Want her number?”

  “I’m taken. Thanks.”

  “That’s right. I heard. The chick with the serial killer parents. That must make for some weird role-play in the bedroom.”

  It happens as easily as tying his shoes or opening a car door. It helps that Jordy Clements lacks the physical strength suggested by his constant strut. Also, the guy’s just arrogant enough that he didn’t see the move coming. Now, Luke’s got the prick on his feet and he’s managed to cuff him in less than ten seconds flat. He starts shoving him forward through the gawking crowd with the kind of short, determined bursts of force he’d use on a stumbling drunk.

  “It’s ingratitude, asshole,” Luke growls into his ear. “The word’s ingratitude.”

  20

  Luke isn’t surprised to see the holding cell’s still got five men in it, all of them big, grizzled guys with expressions ranging from dazed to regretful. A few of them hold their heads in their hands, a sure sign they’re sobering up faster than they’d like.

  When Jordy realizes he’s about to be locked up with some of his own employees, he sucks in a sharp breath that makes Luke tighten his grip on the man’s cuffs. After a light shove that sends him inside the cell, Luke uncuffs the man, then draws the gate shut between them with a louder than necessary clang.

  “Howdy, boss!” cries one of the less sober men inside the cell, a mountain of a dude with a scraggly beard the color of the last cup in a gas station coffeepot. “What’ve I told you about beer after liquor? Sicker quicker!”

  “That’s backwards, fool,” says one of his more sober bench mates.

  “You sure you don’t want a lawyer, Mr. Clements?” Luke asks.

  Jordy turns to him, expression impassive. “I won’t need one.”

  Luke nods, then starts down th
e short passageway to the station’s main room.

  He’s surprised to see his boss heading straight for him through the warren of desks that were mostly empty five months ago. Mona Sanchez is not supposed to be working tonight. Only Luke knows why. She’s also not in uniform, which means someone called her in for something.

  Henricks, you weaselly prick.

  “What are you doing here?” Luke asks, once they’re practically nose to nose.

  “Nice to see you, too.” The flash of hurt in her eyes looks nothing like her usual stony professionalism. Luke instantly regrets his tone.

  “Is everything OK?” Luke asks.

  “He didn’t want me there,” she mutters. “He’s been throwing up all day . . . and so . . .”

  “He’s that sick and he didn’t want you there?”

  “He said he didn’t want me to see him like that, and he said it about six times, and when I tried to help him clean up he batted my arm away. So . . .”

  “So?”

  “I got in my car and came back.”

  As if she didn’t already have enough to deal with, around the time the first work crews rolled in town, Mona’s long-term boyfriend was diagnosed with late-stage non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Edward’s a lawyer down in Santa Ynez who spends most of his time defending the local Chumash tribe from the endless barrage of legal challenges the neighbors have brought against their casino. For years now, the two have enjoyed a casual commuter relationship, but ever since his diagnosis, Mona’s been spending more time in Santa Ynez, helping him navigate the ravages of chemotherapy. Being sent away abruptly by the man she loves, the man to whom she’s been giving all her spare time, has got to hurt.

  “Why don’t you go home and get some rest and I’ll—”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you just arrested Jordy Clements?” Mona asks.

  “His girlfriend can help. She’s in the interview room. Her name’s Lacey Shannon, and earlier tonight she—”

  “She’s gone.”

  “To the hospital?”

  “No. She changed her mind and walked out.”

  “What?”

  Mona raises a hand to quiet him. “Luke, we need to talk about basic protocol with drunks. We’re getting a lot more than we used to, and you can’t always—”