Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  “Why aren’t you taking notes?”

  I tapped my forehead, taking another long drag.

  He sighed. “First off, I know you and Harvey don’t see eye to eye—”

  “Does Harvey know you’re here?” I did not want, in any way, shape, or form, to get on Harvey’s other bad side; being on one was plenty.

  “This is about his sister, Rondelle. She’s gotten herself into a situation that makes Harvey see red and makes him worthless to me. His reaction time is slow. I’ve had to call in reinforcements just to handle normal bar problems.”

  If Harvey, bouncer and all-around mean mother extraordinaire wasn’t doing his job keeping peace in Fat Bob’s, a bar even the cops avoided, Tony’s tense posture was understandable.

  Martinez continued, “So far, I’ve stopped him from heading down to the rez to handle the situation on his own. He’ll break bones first, ask questions second. I don’t need him in jail.”

  As the chief enforcer, Harvey knew the Hombres organization inside out. I doubted he’d betray Martinez, but I wouldn’t want to take that chance either.

  “Tell me about his sister.”

  “Rondelle isn’t the problem. It’s her daughter, Chloe. She’s sort of missing.”

  My cigarette made it halfway to my mouth before it stopped short. Oh hell no. Not another case about a missing kid. I choked, “Sort of missing?”

  “Before you freak, you should understand this is nothing like the Samantha Friel case.”

  I grudgingly unearthed a slightly damp legal pad and a feathered pen. “Let’s start at the beginning with full names and a full explanation.”

  Martinez pulled out a photo and a crumpled piece of floral stationery from the pocket of his black leather vest. He handed them to me across my desk. “The mother’s name is Rondelle Eagle Tail.”

  Fairly common Lakota name. I frowned. As siblings did she and Harvey share the same surname? Funny, I’d never considered that Harvey had a last name. I’d built him up into an entity unto himself with a singular moniker, like Elvis. Or Charo. Or Hitler.

  “Daughter’s name is Chloe Black Dog.”

  “How did it happen that Chloe is ‘sort of’ missing?”

  “Rondelle dropped off Chloe at the Smart Start program in Sturgis. When she swung by to pick Chloe up after her shift at a casino in Deadwood, the daycare worker told her that Chloe’s father had already been there.”

  Dread settled in my stomach as I studied the moon-faced, dark-eyed girl in the picture. “Don’t most daycare facilities have safeguards to prevent that situation?”

  “That’s the problem. Donovan had authorization to pick up his daughter, without restrictions. Rondelle didn’t think anything of it until it became obvious Donovan wasn’t planning on returning Chloe any time soon.”

  When had it become obvious to Rondelle that Chloe was missing? An hour? A day? A week? Or when the Department of Social Services credit didn’t appear in her bank account?

  Cynical? Yep. Welcome to my world.

  “This situation stem from child support issues?”

  “No. Before you ask, there’s no suspected abuse on either side. For whatever reason, we’re guessing he took her to Pine Ridge. He used to live there, and his family still does.”

  “Where does Donovan live now?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “Let me decide that.” I drummed my pen and waited.

  The don’t-fuck-with-me aura Martinez projected usually scared the hell out of me, but at times it pissed me off. Stoicism wasn’t winning him points. He’d better play nice and cough up more substantial details or I’d kick him to the curb.

  His resigned gaze caught mine. “Fine. He’d been renting a trailer in Black Hawk. But we know he hasn’t shown up there in the last few days.”

  “If you’ve already got someone doing surveillance on his place what do you need me for?”

  A calculating smile deepened his dimple. “Blondie, I’m gonna keep that very intriguing question in a strictly professional context.” He sobered quickly. “I need someone who won’t spook Donovan the minute they set eyes on him. Unfortunately, Harvey doesn’t fit that bill.”

  “I assume Donovan has a job?”

  “He’s foreman for Brush Creek Construction Company. Travels between the Pine Ridge, Rosebud, and White Plain reservations, overseeing projects.”

  “So no one has talked to him?”

  He shook his head. “We’ve tried. Left messages with the business office, his cell phones and his pager, but he hasn’t responded.”

  No kidding. I wouldn’t respond either if I knew Harvey and Martinez were hot on my tail. But with that much professional responsibility, it wouldn’t be easy for Donovan to vanish.

  “Tell me about Donovan.”

  Martinez rattled off info: the vehicle Donovan drove, his general physical description, favorite hangouts, friends. Something was missing.

  I ground out my smoke. “Has Rondelle contacted the authorities? Child welfare?” Why wasn’t she here, hysterical, demanding the father’s head on a pike?

  “No. Not only is Rondelle Lakota, she’s a single mother with an arrest record dating back to juvenile. The courts or the tribal police won’t do a damn thing. Do you know how many kids get shuffled from foster home to foster home on the reservations?” he countered. “Or passed off from one family member to another?”

  “But the FBI—”

  “Don’t give a damn about one five-year old Indian girl. I do. Harvey does.” He paused. “And I thought you would, too.”

  Shit. He’d reeled me in and he knew it.

  He angled forward, tattoos rippling on his forearms as he rested them on his knees, the picture of sincerity. “Go down to Pine Ridge and find her.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “You will.”

  His confidence in my abilities didn’t inspire the same ballsy feeling within my own skin.

  I scanned the crumpled paper and the scant notes. Three names. An unclear chain of events. Phone numbers that might be disconnected. “With this little scrap of information?”

  “All I could come up with. That’s why I need you to use your contacts to find her.”

  “My contacts?” Being new to the PI biz, I hadn’t cultivated many contacts, and my partner Kevin hadn’t been around enough to share his. That was another no-confidence admission I kept to myself.

  “Wasn’t your half-brother Lakota?”

  Clever, how Martinez had one-upped me on personal stats. I’d do a little digging on him to level the field. “Ben was from White Plain, not Pine Ridge.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Yes, it did, and Martinez damn well knew it. Individual tribes were as particular about their bloodlines and sub bands as the English were about their titles and estates.

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” he added.

  I sank back in my chair. “It’s not that.”

  Did I admit to Martinez my wounds hadn’t healed from the last time I’d (unsuccessfully) involved myself in a child’s life? Or, more importantly, maybe Kevin wouldn’t want me to accept this type of case?

  As the senior partner, Kevin had assigned me projects, corporate stuff mostly. I never complained. Then again, I hadn’t taken any initiative to bring in new clients. This case offered me a chance to get out of the office.

  Would it restore my self-confidence after the way I’d handled the screwed up situation with my neighbor, Kiyah?

  As I battled my ghosts, Martinez floated a personal check in front of me.

  My stomach jumped at the sight of all those zeroes. “Five thousand bucks?”

  “A retainer. You find her, you keep it, plus I’ll pay your normal fees.”

  Why did it feel like a bribe? The beige check bearing his name in neat, block letters, sans address and phone number, stared back at me like a dare. I picked it up.

  “It won’t bounce, I guarantee it.”

  Sad to admit his wicked grin
clinched the deal, sucker that I am for a handsome face. Five thousand smackers would go a long way in proving the case’s worthiness to Kevin.

  But I hedged. This was too … pat.

  “What?”

  “If I do find Chloe, what do I do with her?”

  “Nothing. Keep track of her until Harvey and I can get to wherever you are. Then we’ll return her to Rondelle.”

  “Sounds good in theory. In reality it’s a felony called kidnapping.”

  Martinez reclined back in the chair. “So is Donovan keeping Chloe from her custodial parent in the first place.”

  He had a point.

  “You in?” he asked tightly.

  “Maybe. Two things.” I held up my hand, halting his questions. “First, is that if I take this case, I run the investigation my way without complaint from you, or interference from Harvey. That means if I see one of your henchmen following me at any time, then the deal is off and I keep this.” I fluttered the check like a yellow warning flag.

  His mouth twitched. “Henchmen?”

  “Bodyguards, or whatever the hell you call them.”

  “Deal. What’s the second thing?”

  All the fury, hurt, and frustration I’d felt about Samantha’s murder and Kiyah’s sad life darkened the sunny room like a cloud of sulfur. “If this missing child angle is bogus and you’re using me to do your dirty work because Donovan somehow double-crossed you and the Hombres, I will make it my mission to take you down.”

  Pointed silence weighted the air.

  “I’d expect nothing less, blondie.”

  “Then I’m on it.”

  I whirled my chair toward my computer and opened the standard contract document file. “Hang tight for a sec while I print out the agreement.”

  Outside on the street below, air brakes from a tour bus whooshed, followed by squealing tires, angry voices, and blaring horns. The smell of diesel fuel and burnt rubber drifted in. Gotta love tourist season.

  “Where’s your partner?” he asked.

  “In and out. Why?”

  “Curious. His girlfriend still hanging on?”

  My hands froze on the keyboard. How had Martinez found out Lilly lingered at death’s door? Far as I knew, hoods and librarians did not run in the same circles. Then again, it had been awhile since I’d stepped foot in either crowd. Might be a new literacy program, “Books for Bikers” or some damn thing.

  Before I could ask specifics, he said, “Jimmer told me.”

  Jimmer. Our mutual friend: pawnshop owner, suspected commando for hire, and other sketchy occupations I didn’t waste brainpower contemplating. “You seen him lately?”

  “Yeah, last week at Bare Assets.”

  Don’t ask. I bit my tongue and wheeled around as the printer kicked out the paper.

  I managed not to leap to the rafters when I saw Martinez lounging with one hip cocked on my desk.

  “Almost done,” I said brightly.

  “Good.” His rapt gaze roamed my face. “You cut your hair.”

  “Uh. Yeah.” Smooth, Julie.

  “Looks good.”

  “Thanks.” I grabbed the contract. Handed it over along with a feather-tipped pen and watched as he scrawled his signature across the bottom.

  When he finished, he lightly drew the feather down my bare arm from my shoulder to my wrist. “Seeing anyone these days?”

  With Martinez as a client, I had a legitimate reason for rejecting his advances, much as it secretly pained me. There’d been a powerful one-two punch between us from the start. I pretended to be oblivious to it. He didn’t.

  I’d successfully avoided all memories of it until now.

  “Actually, I am,” I said, snatching the pen from him. “How about you?”

  His low, sexy chuckle stirred a hormonal response in me, which I virtuously ignored.

  “No one I wouldn’t ditch in a hot minute for a shot at you.”

  On the outside I didn’t blink. On the inside? My heart revved into high gear like a nitro drag bike at the starting line.

  Luckily, Kim chose that moment to stumble into my office.

  “Hey, Jules, are we—” She skidded to a halt on magenta spike heels. Her startled gaze traveled from Martinez, to me, and then back to him.

  She drank in his maze of tattoos, the thick mane of black hair, the heavy soled biker boots, the leather, the attitude, the heady tang of danger that clung to him, a scent more potent than cologne.

  Her back snapped straight. She bared her teeth. I expected her to circle him, lick his neck, and call “dibs.”

  Glossy peach lips pouted. “Damn. I suppose he’s yours, too?”

  Thankfully, Martinez smiled. “Not that I haven’t tried, but I can’t claim Ms. Collins attentions …”

  Yet. The unspoken word hung in the air. Part challenge, part promise.

  He stretched away from the desk and offered his hand. “Tony Martinez. And you would be?”

  “Very happy to meet you, sugar,” she drawled, grasping his hand, wiggling closer as she teetered and lost her balance.

  “This is my friend, Kim Carpenter. Kim runs Classic Cuts, downstairs,” I said, amused that his palm on her breast had immediately stabilized her precarious sense of balance.

  Kim used her maroon talons to fluff up her flawlessly tousled hairdo.

  Glad I wasn’t the only female with the impulse to primp for Martinez. Usually I drew the line at groping a hot man after the obligatory exchange of “nice-to-meet-yous.”

  Usually, but not always.

  “Ah.” He cast me an appreciative glance. “Julie’s knock-out new look is your handiwork?”

  Kim preened and all but buffed her knuckles above her cleavage. “Took me a month to convince her to tame that mop of hair, but Lord, she still won’t let me do a blessed thing about the sorry state of her nails.”

  “And you won’t.” I shoved the receipt in a file, automatically curling my fingers into my palms. God forbid the day came that I’d even consider a French manicure.

  “So, Mr. Martinez,” Kim said, then switched the conversation to Spanish, smirking at me.

  He answered in kind.

  How sweet.

  I tuned them out until I heard, “—you ladies into having a drink with me?”

  Behind his back, I vehemently shook my head. Unfortunately, Kim’s good eye was firmly anchored on Martinez, leaving the glass one staring back at me in that sightless, creepy manner I’d never get accustomed to.

  “You buying, sugar?” Kim cooed.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Sorry,” I said with forced sweetness, just to compete with the gooey tone Kim had affected. “But Kim and I have plans. You know, girl stuff.”

  Hah. Let him think we were giving each other facials. Not his business that our night out would likely consist of slurping margaritas, cheating at pool, and trying like hell not to drink on our own dime. Face down in salt and lime was my ideal facial treatment.

  He shrugged. “Another time then.” To me he said, “You’ll be in touch?”

  The reminder of my task tomorrow dimmed some of my enjoyment. “As soon as possible.”

  He left as swiftly as he’d arrived.

  Kim sighed and sprawled into the seat he’d just vacated. “That man is proof that God exists, and She wants every woman to experience the pleasures of a virile Latin male.” She squirmed. “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. I believe I can still feel his body heat.”

  “Spare me your overheated imagination. Kevin said no sex in that chair, and I think that includes solo acts.”

  Her fake eyelashes swept up as she rolled her good eye. “Girl, one of these days you are going to share whatever little trick that makes all these hunky men kowtow to you.”

  Only a southern belle like Kim could get away with using the word kowtow in casual conversation. “What men?”

  “Hmm. Let’s see. Your partner, Kevin. Boy-toy, Kell. GI Joe stud Jimmer, although he scares the bejesus out of me.”

  “Jimmer isn
’t nearly as scary to me as Martinez.”

  “Scary how?”

  “On more levels than I can explain.”

  “Interesting. Didn’t think any man made ‘Julie the Invincible’ shake in her Doc Martens.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Well, anyway, you could have your own …” She frowned. “What’s the female equivalent of a harem?”

  “There isn’t one. Women aren’t supposed to enjoy the carnal pleasures of the flesh with more than one man at a time, remember?”

  Kim sniffed. “Stupid decree made by men, I’ll bet.”

  “Yep. The old double standard is alive and well,” I said.

  “That sucks.” She sailed to her feet, nimble as a cat. “What do you say we try to break that rule tonight?”

  Words to live by. No wonder Kim and I had become such fast friends.

  I grinned. “You’re on.”

  CHAPTER 2

  HANGOVERS WERE NEVER FUN.

  The next morning, after a scalding shower, a pot of high-octane coffee, and four Excedrin, I barely felt human.

  I watched as Kell slept in total oblivion to the throbbing in my head.

  How he’d managed to avoid becoming a raging alcoholic after performing in bars every night was beyond me.

  How I’d hooked up with him was equally baffling.

  One thing for sure, Kell was mighty easy on the eyes. Long golden hair, a tight ass, a toothy grin. With a guitar slung around his neck, the man fulfilled every one of my hair band/Kip Winger fantasies from the 1980’s.

  Plus, he was truly a gentle soul; tolerant, non-confrontational, everything I’m not. Maybe opposites did attract, although, Kevin claimed the only reason I’d hooked up with Kell was because his spine was made of tofu.

  Perched on the mattress beside him, I brushed sun-streaked tangles from his cheekbone, and then nudged his ribs hard with my elbow. Sadistic? Yes. A personality defect I blamed on too many tequila shooters.

  He stretched, squinting at the clock. “What time is it?”

  “Nine.”

  He groaned.

  “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “Man. I am so wiped.”

  “You should be. It was a great set last night.”

  “Thanks. Glad someone thought so.” His disapproving gaze skimmed my periwinkle Josephine Chaus pantsuit. “Off to work?”