Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  “Yeah, then follow-up on a new case. You know, the usual,” I lied. Nothing usual about tracking down a man who’d abducted his own kid, especially when my part in locating the missing girl fell outside normal legal channels for the first time.

  Kell frowned. “I’ve got rehearsal this afternoon and tonight. Don’t know if I’ll be back today.”

  “Whatever,” I said, which pretty much defined our relationship.

  Yawning in my face, he rolled over, burrowed under the star quilt and was out like a light.

  As I sped toward Rapid City, I smoked and formulated a plan for tracking down Donovan Black Dog. Just because Martinez had suggested I start my search in Pine Ridge didn’t mean I would.

  Yeah, yeah, Kevin had attempted to ingrain in me the “customer is always right” philosophy he followed, but I thought it a complete line of bullshit. Weren’t we supposed to be the experts? In my book, depositing a check didn’t give the client the right to call the shots. With Kevin rarely in the office, I called all the shots.

  I zoomed into my designated spot in the sunny lot behind the office building. Kevin’s spot remained empty.

  No surprise. A pang of disappointment squeezed my throat. In the last few months he hadn’t spilled his guts to me about the personal shit he was dealing with, a set of circumstances that had to be sheer hell.

  Kevin had been in the trenches for most of my major life crises. Was it so wrong I wanted to return the support he’d given me? Granted, I’d never liked Lilly. Didn’t mean I wanted her dead. It meant I geared my sympathy toward Kevin, not her.

  My biggest fear was that Lilly’s terminal cancer had nothing to do with the gulf separating Kevin from me. Had the rapid change from friends to business partners shoved that wedge between us? Or did he regret the steamy—albeit drunken—kiss we’d shared a few months back, a kiss that we’d yet to address?

  If this were a typical situation with him, I’d nag, yell, whine, and bitch. Piss him off. Force a confrontation to get any kind of reaction. It appeared my Jerry Springer approach to therapy would have to wait another day.

  Our suite of offices was dark and cool. I retrieved voice mail messages and booted up Kevin’s computer. Three new file folders were stacked in the center of his desk. A day-glow blue sticky note read:

  “Jules, please finish these today. I’ll be in touch. K.”

  Hmm. Apparently Kevin had been in the office. When?

  I checked the security log. He’d come in at midnight and clocked out at eight this morning, the time I usually rolled in.

  Was he avoiding me? Or was the middle of the night the only time he could escape Lilly’s clutches? Not a particularly nice thought. The truth rarely was.

  My gaze swept the dim room. Not only were the couch cushions rumpled, the dove-gray fleece blanket I’d given him for his birthday dangled drunkenly between the arm and the side table. Kevin had been sleeping at the office. Why?

  Curious, I examined the security log for the whole week. He’d been here for the last five nights. Again, why?

  I reached for the phone, but my paranoia stopped the motion mid-air. Even if I got lucky and tracked him down, he’d hedge his reasons and avoid any explanation.

  I channeled my frustration into work. Took me four hours to finish Kevin’s assignment. Either he’d underestimated my PI skills, or those skills were improving.

  Heels kicked off, caffeine within reach, and cigarettes at hand. Time to concentrate on finding Donovan Black Dog.

  During my last disastrous relationship—with a psycho passing himself off as a carpenter—I’d learned a few things about the construction business. A hierarchy exists in blue-collar jobs. At the top is the general contractor. Since most general contractors run multiple projects, one person is designated to handle it all: The foreman.

  A foreman is God on site. He oversees structural stages, plumbing, electrical, drywall subcontractors, roofers, bricklayers; he is the “go to” guy for everything. Hence, he could never be too far out of touch.

  So how had Donovan Black Dog eluded Martinez and company?

  Within minutes of tapping into the local county database listing building permits, I’d discovered a list of Brush Creek Construction’s current projects, all from the comfort of my cushy office chair.

  I skimmed the records. Why hadn’t a shrewd man like Martinez staked out Donovan’s various jobsites? The housing developments in Rosebud and Pine Ridge would’ve been tricky, especially if those jobs were federally funded, with stipulations about exactly who could be on site. But Brush Creek had several operations close to Rapid City.

  Interesting. Brush Creek had landed the contract on the highly controversial new Indian casino under construction on the reservation land owned by the Sihasapa tribe. Land loosely linked to Bear Butte.

  Only one mile from where my brother’s body had been found.

  Shit. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I did not want to make this another case about Ben.

  In recent months, I’d made great strides in not letting Ben’s murder continue to consume my life. Not a natural or easy progression. Part of me felt a traitor for not pursuing justice. Part of me needed a break from the black vortex of pain and misery that engulfs me whenever I think of what I’d lost.

  I rubbed grit from my eyes and refocused.

  Contrary to what Martinez claimed, it isn’t contacts that lead to information on a case, but a methodical strategy. Find a thread, jerk it and see how strong it is. Sometimes it unravels; sometimes it leads to a bigger knot with more dangling threads.

  My list started with the basics. To erect a building a variety of materials are needed. Concrete. Steel. Lumber.

  Common sense said Brush Creek would use local resources. For lumber, that meant the mill outside of Whitewood. The yellow pages for Sturgis listed two building supply companies.

  Utilizing my tenth grade acting skills, I called the first store, pretending to inquire about a lost invoice for Brush Creek Construction. They had no record of a current account.

  I hit pay dirt with the second call. Not only did they connect me directly to Luanne, supervisor at the contractor sales desk, but she informed me that a custom window order was waiting for a delivery confirmation time from the foreman.

  Armed with that information, I phoned the main office of Brush Creek Construction.

  “Hi. This is Luanne with contractor sales at Dakota Warehouse. We got in those custom windows Mr. Black Dog has been waiting for on the Bear Butte job. He wanted to know when they came in and I’ve tried calling him on his cell,” I rattled off the number Martinez had scribbled, “and his pager, but he’s not answering.”

  Talk about suspicious. The secretary immediately challenged me. “Yeah? Exactly what number do you have for his pager?”

  I recited the second line scrawled on the paper.

  “Those are the right ones,” she admitted. “He hasn’t been in the office for days. With the crappy cell service between Rosebud and Pine Ridge, we don’t talk to him much.”

  “I can imagine. Look. Is he planning to check in at the Bear Butte jobsite any time soon so I can get these windows off my loading dock?” Ooh. Didn’t I sound efficient?

  “Hang on.”

  Papers rustled in the background. Deep voices murmured.

  Maybe my cockiness had been premature.

  She returned to the line. “He checked in an hour ago and said he’d be onsite after five today. Give me your number and I’ll have him call you for a delivery time.”

  “That’d be great, thanks.” Despite my sense of elation at the topnotch detective work, it’d almost been too easy.

  The afternoon dragged. I finished the Cromwell report and tidied the offices. Called Kevin. When his voice mail kicked in, I withstood the temptation to leave yet another message.

  At 4:00 I drove home, changed clothes, and switched vehicles.

  Clouds of red dirt swirled behind my beat up Ford truck as I trekked down the gravel road l
eading to the new casino. A parking lot had mushroomed kitty-corner to where the building stood. Staggered lines of pickups, SUVs, and heavy equipment trailers provided perfect cover.

  I parked diagonally to keep an eye on incoming traffic as well as the clusters of men milling around outside blowing off steam.

  Equal rights and all that jazz aside, a construction site was a boys’ club. Men worked hard, sweated, shouted, swore and talked dirty without worrying about offending some woman’s delicate sensibilities. The few times I’d visited Ray I’d noticed women were a scarce commodity.

  My presence could raise a few red flags, so I’d dressed in Wranglers, a white tank top, faded flannel shirt, tucked my hair beneath an old ball cap, and hid in the truck.

  Binoculars in hand, I settled in. A grimy layer of dust coated the inside of the dashboard and stuck to the sweat dampening my face and neck. Doing a stakeout with the windows up when it’s 90 degrees wasn’t an option. I suffered the additional dust blowing through the open window in silence.

  Workers laughed and joked, gathered stained coolers and dented lunchboxes, stowed mystery tools in scarred toolboxes. The day starts early in the summer when mornings are cool. Might seem like bankers’ hours, knocking off at 5:00. But after putting in eleven or twelve hours of physical labor, these guys deserved every second of happy hour.

  Once the workers scattered into the parking area, I set aside my binoculars and flipped open Entertainment Weekly. No one paid attention to me. I was just someone’s old lady, idly passing the time until my man finished his shift.

  About 5:15 a dually pickup bumped into view. I scooted down in my seat, but kept my gaze trained on the man behind the wheel of the white Dodge Ram. He drove through slowly and parked behind a dump truck, which completely obscured his vehicle from view.

  Interesting.

  A short, lean man, I assumed Donovan, headed straight for command central, the dilapidated 10 X 13 trailer, obviously salvaged after it’d been hit by a twister. Cap pulled down, sunglasses covered his eyes. He blended in with the rest of the workforce, except for the butt-length braid and the reddish-brown hue of his skin.

  With the shades drawn inside the trailer, my binoculars were useless. I suspected my original plan of following Donovan, in hopes he’d lead me to Chloe, was overly optimistic. I’d have to make direct contact with him. An unsettling prospect, a woman, out here alone without backup. But if there were any chance Donovan would talk to me, I’d risk it.

  So I waited, feeling superior that I didn’t slack in my watchdog duties even to smoke one lousy cigarette.

  Twenty minutes passed. My truck and one rusted-out Buick LeSabre were the only vehicles left in the lot. Eerie, how fast this place resembled a Black Hills ghost town.

  It was the perfect time to make my move.

  I scooted out the passenger’s side and situated myself in the shade of the dump truck, smack dab in a patch of skunkweed. Gnats buzzed around my head. Dust particles tickled my nose. Metal rivets dug into my back. What’s not to love about surveillance?

  Donovan emerged from the trailer.

  His keys jangled. He shifted his black backpack (no pansy-ass briefcases for construction guys), and his long strides ate the distance with enough speed to cause a race walker envy.

  When he reached the truck I sidled from the shadows. “Donovan Black Dog?”

  “Shit!” He leapt back like a startled cat. “Where did you come from? Who are you?”

  Although my heart knocked in my chest, I offered a friendly smile and my hand. “I’m Julie Collins.”

  He ignored my hand and harrumphed, “What do you want?”

  “To talk to you about Chloe.”

  “Not interested.” He attempted to maneuver around me.

  Naturally, I propped myself against the driver’s side door, blocking his escape. “Too bad.”

  “What makes you think I’ll talk to you?” A statement, not a threat.

  “You know, that is a good question. I’ll even give you two options: You can talk to me,” I waggled my cell phone between us, “or you can talk to the Bear Butte County Sheriff and explain to him why you violated your custody agreement and snatched your daughter.”

  My sunglasses slid down my nose; I peered at him over the pink plastic rims. “FYI: Sheriff Richards’ number is on my speed dial. It’d take him about three minutes to have a deputy here.”

  Donovan didn’t say a word.

  “What’s it gonna be?”

  “You work for the county?” he demanded.

  I said, “Suit yourself,” and pretended to dial.

  He backtracked. “Okay, okay, put the phone away. I’ll talk.”

  I clicked it shut. “Look. I’m here …” Much easier to offer proof. I reached into my back pocket for a business card.

  “Whoa.” His hands came up in surrender. Bet as a kid he killed at freeze tag, his immediate statue impression was superb. “No need to flash your piece.”

  He thought I was packin’? Way cool. Instead of disabusing him of that notion, I shrugged. “Fine. But I’ve got cuffs”—a complete lie, I’d forgotten them at home—“so don’t try anything.”

  “Not a problem,” he assured me.

  “Tell me where I can find Chloe and I’ll be on my way.”

  A thin line of sweat tracked down Donovan’s temple and neck, adding to the damp stain below his yellowed T-shirt collar. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The man was as skittish as a calf at branding time. “Who sent you?”

  Nervous usually meant unstable. An unarmed woman, alone in a field with a man I didn’t know, great plan, Julie. I’d have to win his trust pretty damn fast. “Someone who’s very concerned about Chloe’s well-being.”

  Disparaging laughter boomed. “That narrows it down some, ’cause it sure as shit ain’t Chloe’s mother.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “YOU SURE ABOUT THAT?” WITH A BORED SIGH, I REMOVED my sunglasses and tucked them in the pocket of my flannel shirt. “Rondelle won’t file charges against you if Chloe is returned to her immediately.”

  Donovan studied me from behind mirrored shades, which was disconcerting as hell. I preferred fear to curiosity.

  “Yeah? Maybe I oughta file charges against her.”

  Color me surprised he’d finally called my bluff. “Why? You’re the one who snatched Chloe from her daycare in the first place.”

  “Who tole you that buncha horseshit?”

  At my blank look—which wasn’t entirely faked—he swore again.

  “Let me tell you a little story ’bout how I happened to ‘snatch’ my daughter. More than two weeks ago, Rondelle dumped Chloe off at Smart Start, on a day Chloe wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  Donovan paused, ripped off his sunglasses so I could see the aggravation in his eyes.

  My breath stalled. I knew what he was about to say before the words huffed passed his lips.

  “Rondelle never showed to pick her up. When they got a hold of me, as a last resort,” he stressed, “I was in Pine Ridge, three hours away.”

  He glanced at a fluffy white cloud passing overhead, a temporary reprieve from the burning sun, but nothing shielded his heated words. “Had to talk fast to convince the supervisor, Cindy, not to call Social Services or the cops, which might’ve been the best choice, but at the time, I decided enough was enough.”

  “Couldn’t you have called someone else to pick her up? Like another family member who lives close by?”

  Donovan’s gaze snapped back to mine. Hardened like cement.

  I blinked innocently, an offhand comment, but he saw right through it.

  “Rondelle didn’t hire you.” Donovan’s impassioned denial sent his braid slithering over his shoulder like a fat, black snake. “No fuckin’ way am I lettin’ that psycho Harvey get his hands on my daughter, I don’t care how much he’s payin’ you.”

  Clarifying who’d actually written the check wouldn’t set Donovan’s mind at ease.

  And why in the hell did Don
ovan’s state of mind matter to me? He’d been thrust into the villain’s role in this melodrama, ripping the poor child away from her loving mother. But if what he’d told me was true, I didn’t blame him.

  Once again I only had half the story. Hell, I didn’t know who to believe, which did not bode well for client relations. Despite my conflicting feelings, I asked, “Do you have any intention of returning Chloe to Rondelle?”

  Equally belligerent, he said, “Why should I tell you anything?”

  I considered reaching for my nonexistent gun, just to see if he’d flinch again, but with my luck, he’d probably call me on it. Screw client confidentiality. I used the only leverage I had left.

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll call Tony Martinez and you can explain it to him.”

  Stunned silence buzzed between us equal to the distant hum of traffic on I-90.

  “All right,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll talk to you. But not here.”

  The empty parking lot seemed the ideal place to hash through this mess. “Why not here?”

  Donovan’s nervous gaze swept the area. “Might look deserted, but there’s things goin’ on here you don’t want no part of.” He pointed to Bear Butte. “There’s a picnic area near the creek where the north trailhead starts. We’ll have some privacy there.”

  My insides squeezed like an orange in a juicer.

  I’d avoided Bear Butte since Ben’s murder. In fact, most days I pretended Bear Butte didn’t exist—quite an accomplishment since the 1000-foot volcanic rock formation cast its shadow over everything and everyone in our small county.

  “Absolutely not. No fucking way.”

  Donovan stared at me like I’d grown hooves. “What?”

  I blurted, “How about if we go to Dusty’s? It’s down the road. Happy hour. I’ll even buy.” I’d rather chance running into my former abusive boyfriend, Ray, than lounge around where my brother had been murdered and pretend I was on a fucking picnic.

  He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m part of the Sacred Buffalo sobriety movement and never go anywhere alcohol is served.”

  I freaked.