Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  “That’ll happen every time you refuse to answer a question. So I ask you again: Why did you meet with Rondelle?”

  “She had some information for a case I’m working on.”

  “What case?”

  “Her daughter’s.”

  Reggie’s face registered interest. “What about her daughter?”

  Stall stall stall. “Long story or short?”

  “What do you think?”

  “The girl’s father snatched her. Rondelle wants the kid back.”

  “When did Rondelle hire you?”

  My gaze fell to the tips of my red Candies sling backs. Talk about clashing with the carpet. I inhaled. Exhaled. Wondered what the hell was taking Jimmer so long.

  Black loafers moved into my line of sight. I dragged my eyes up to Reggie’s face now close enough to mine that I could count his long, black nose hairs.

  “Tommy,” he stated.

  The crack of flesh hitting flesh bounced off the walls.

  Kell didn’t scream this time; he couldn’t through the fist Tommy had plowed into his stomach.

  “You’d better answer quickly, Ms. Collins. Pretty soon Tommy will get bored and move on to more persuasive methods. With you.”

  The leer on Tommy’s squashed face as he made kissing noises made my skin crawl.

  Instead of fear, a strange calm overtook me. Wrong move. I’d been raped once and I’d blow his brains out before he ever laid a finger on me.

  “Rondelle hired me last Friday.”

  The back of Reggie’s hand cracked into my face. Hard. Pain exploded in my head. I stumbled back in my heels, righting myself with the library table by the door before I fell on my ass.

  “Don’t lie.”

  I rubbed my jaw, blinked away the stars dancing in front of my eyes. “I’m not.”

  “You think we’re stupid? Saturday night was the first time you met.”

  “Ever heard of the telephone?” You dumb fuck. “She called me.”

  Reggie made as if to slap me again.

  I cringed and backed up. Any time, Jimmer.

  Should I reach for my gun? Or would Reggie shoot me before I thumbed the safety?

  “I’m asking the questions.” He motioned to Tommy.

  My stomach pitched as I watched Tommy backhand Kell.

  Kell gasped, blood burst forth from his mouth, his head flopped to his chest like a broken-necked doll.

  Jesus. Just let him pass out.

  “Rondelle couldn’t give a shit about that kid,” Reggie said, bulling his way toward me again. “So I know she ain’t the one paying you to snoop around.”

  He turned his back on Tommy, planted his feet and aimed the gun at my neck. “Last chance. Who hired you?”

  With my mouth waterless as a summer creekbed, I didn’t know if I could answer.

  “I hired her.”

  Reggie whipped his head toward the steely voice.

  I didn’t have to. I recognized it.

  Tony Martinez.

  CHAPTER 12

  TOMMY’S EYES WERE LIQUID WITH FEAR AT THE ENORMOUS pistol Martinez had jammed against his temple.

  In that split second Tony had Reggie’s attention, I whipped out my gun and pointed it at Reggie’s fat head.

  Reggie swung his gun toward Kell.

  “Well, Mr. Martinez,” Reggie said, “this is a surprise.”

  I’d second that. What was he doing here? And where the hell was Jimmer?

  “Appears we’ve got ourselves a—”

  “If you say ‘Mexican standoff’,” Martinez interrupted coolly, “I’ll blow a hole in you the size of Tijuana.”

  Reggie’s lips curled with scorn. “My mistake.”

  Martinez said nothing.

  What a fucked up mess. If I shot Reggie, Reggie would fire at Kell. Martinez in turn would shoot Tommy. Odds were in our favor but it didn’t sustain my confidence.

  “You here for business or personal reasons?”

  Martinez leveled him with that cold-eyed stare.

  Reggie sighed and looked at me, his disgusted perusal started at my toes, wandered up my body, landing on the hair plastered to my head by nervous sweat.

  “Man. With you owning a strip joint and all I thought you’d have better taste in women.”

  Martinez merely shrugged.

  “Didn’t think you got your hands dirty anymore.”

  He fixed his gaze on Reggie without blinking for what seemed an hour.

  My body oozed perspiration from that lethal glare.

  Finally, he said, “That’s your problem, Reggie. You don’t think. You just do whatever Big Joe tells you to do.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “Yeah? Thought your job was to wipe Little Joe’s ass? Big Joe take you off babysitting duties?”

  Reggie didn’t answer.

  “What were you doing at my place Saturday night?”

  “We didn’t actually set foot in the building, so technically we weren’t there.”

  “Wrong. One little toe on my property means you broke the parameters agreed upon last year.” Martinez pushed the gun hard enough into Tommy’s temple I was amazed the barrel didn’t go right through the skin and into his brain. “Why?”

  Tommy stayed still but something in his eyes caused Reggie to talk.

  “We had Rondelle followed. Didn’t expect she’d show up at Fat Bob’s.”

  “And when she did, you shoulda left immediately. But you didn’t, did you? Why?”

  “We wanted to ask her some questions. To find out how long she’d been working for you.”

  “Rondelle doesn’t work for me,” he said.

  Reggie snorted. “What was she doing there?”

  “It’s a bar. You do the math.”

  “Which is what we thought, until Rondelle cornered her,” he gestured with his head toward me, “in the parking lot. They were all kinds of chatty.”

  I shivered and my gun wavered slightly. Reggie and Tommy had been watching us? Creepy.

  “So?” I asked.

  “So,” Reggie repeated, “Rondelle wrote something down and gave it to you. We wanna know what.”

  Great going, Reg. Way to blab to the man who’d hired me that I’d withheld information from him. It’d probably be less painful if Reggie shot me rather than turning me over to Tony.

  “Answer the question, Ms. Collins,” Martinez said.

  “Okay.” A weary little sigh escaped from me as my brain scrambled for a cover story. “But I can’t give you specifics.”

  Reggie cocked his head.

  “Rondelle gave me her secret family recipe for Indian tacos.”

  No one laughed.

  In fact, no one said a word until Martinez intoned, “Well, there’s your answer.”

  “Bullshit.” To Martinez he said, “We figured you planted Rondelle to spy on Carlucci interests in Deadwood.”

  He laughed softly. Dangerously. “You figured wrong. I didn’t know Rondelle was working for a dumb ass like Little Joe until a couple of days ago.”

  “Joe is gonna eat you for lunch,” Reggie said.

  The guy was stupid enough to taunt Martinez while he had a gun to his friend’s head?

  In response, Martinez ground the gun into Tommy’s cheek, breaking the skin. “I don’t need a spy inside your organization to know you’ve been messing with my distribution pyramid. The numbers don’t lie.”

  “Take it up with management. That’s not my job, remember?” Reggie retorted.

  At that point, I thought Martinez would shoot him.

  “Besides, that’s not why we’re here.”

  “Then why are you here?” I demanded.

  Loud carnival music drifted in through the open window in the kitchen. A tinny megaphone blared, “Ice Cream! Frozen Treats!” A couple of cheerful honks of the clown horn and the merry-go-round music distorted as the truck drove away.

  “Answer the question, Reggie,” Martinez said.

  “Rondelle has taken possession of
something that don’t belong to her. We want it back and we’re done askin’ nice.”

  No big stunner they wanted the disk. Everyone wanted that disk.

  Reggie glared at me. “What did she do with it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

  “Wrong.”

  “I already told you I’m trying to track down Rondelle’s daughter. That’s it.”

  Reggie’s eyes briefly flicked my direction then back to Tony. “Then explain, Mr. Martinez, why you hired her? We know you ain’t the kid’s father. What’s your interest?”

  Whoa. The Carluccis didn’t know Harvey was Rondelle’s brother? Maybe the thug network wasn’t as tight as I’d imagined.

  Martinez said, “We’re like family. Rondelle needed help. I hired Ms. Collins.”

  Reggie nodded as if it made perfect sense.

  My bicep spasmed from straight-arming the gun. My face hurt where Reggie smacked me, and we weren’t any closer to laying down our guns and acting like responsible NRA members.

  “The daughter really is missing?”

  Tony shrugged.

  “The father is involved? That’s why Ms. Collins was up at the casino building site with Donovan Black Dog?”

  How the hell did he know so much about where I’d spent my time?

  My mouth opened to ask why someone had been shadowing me before I’d met with Rondelle, but Martinez beat me to it.

  “Sounds like Rondelle isn’t the only one you’ve been following.”

  “Not my call. I do what I’m ordered to do.”

  Had the Carluccis shot Donovan as a warning to Rondelle? Before I could wrap my brain around the question, Kell moaned, drawing our attention.

  My throat closed at the sight of blood drying on his chin. The baseball sized bruise on his ankle didn’t scare me as much as the lack of circulation in his hands.

  I shifted closer to him. Reggie didn’t try to stop me. Seemed we were all ready to lower our weapons.

  Question was: who’d make the first move?

  “Ms. Collins,” Martinez drawled, “drop your gun.”

  I did, clicking the safety on before I hung it by my side.

  “Now you, Reggie. Nice and easy. Slowly put it in your holster and I won’t keep it. Good. Hands in front where I can see them.”

  Once Reggie’s gun was out of sight, Martinez started to let his gun fall to his side, but at the last second, he spun it, held it by the barrel, and clocked Tommy in the face with the grip.

  The plangent crack of metal on bone distorted the air.

  Tommy winced, Reggie stepped forward, but Martinez jerked Tommy back by the hair, spinning the Ruger Super Blackhawk like some Mexican vaquero. He pointed it at Reggie’s head. “Uh-huh. Stay put. You give Little Joe a message.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m done playing nice.”

  My legs went watery at witnessing this stone cold side of Martinez.

  “Done,” Reggie said.

  “Good.” One handed, Martinez heaved Tommy to his knees in front of Reggie and waited until Tommy scrabbled to his feet before he said, “One other thing. If either of you ever leaves a mark on Ms. Collins again, I’ll cut your fucking hands off at the wrist, understood?”

  I might’ve missed Reggie’s tiny scowl if I hadn’t been so petrified this whole scene could still blow up in our faces.

  “Get out,” he said, motioning to my front door with the gun.

  They exited so fast I figured I’d find scorch marks in the carpet.

  My shoulders sagged from the strain. My vision swam, I tried to stay upright, but I swayed, landing on my hands and knees. The musky, putrid scent of Tommy’s body odor permeated the room. I gagged and swallowed, hoping like hell I wouldn’t throw up coffee and fear in my living room. As I fought the battle, I heard Martinez talking.

  “They’re gone. Follow them.”

  I looked up. Big mistake. Blood resonated in my ears; I was seconds away from an adrenaline crash. Before I dropped to the floor, I saw Martinez snap his cell phone shut and scramble toward me.

  A sea of orange engulfed me before everything went dark.

  “Oh no you don’t, blondie. Get up.”

  A muscled arm circled my waist and I was vertical again. I blinked at him through the gray spots dancing in front of my eyes. “What?”

  “You aren’t gonna take the easy way and pass out.”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Tough shit. I’m not dealing with him.”

  I turned my head slowly until Kell came into view. Still slumped in his chair.

  I shook off Martinez’s arm. “Fine. Go.”

  “How do you plan on moving him?”

  “I’ll get Jimmer to help me. Where is he, anyway?”

  “Following Reggie and Tommy.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  “Doubtful.”

  The high-pitched whine of a Japanese motorcycle racing on the street echoed and faded.

  “Why are you here?”

  A baleful stare, then, “You know why.”

  Crap. “Where are your damn bodyguards?”

  “Gave them the day off.”

  “Terrific timing.”

  Then it hit me: Jimmer had called Martinez for backup, not Kevin. Why? Had Martinez volunteered? Or had Kevin refused? Was I that low on Kevin’s list of priorities? I pushed down the sour taste in my mouth that wasn’t from blood.

  I exchanged my gun for the knife, unsheathing it as I dropped into a crouch in front of Kell.

  My hands swept down his bare leg. His skin was clammy. I angled across his knees, careful not to touch him as I placed the knife on the clothesline cord.

  “I can’t believe they did this. I didn’t know … ” The rush had burned off, and I shook like a junkie.

  If I didn’t get control I might accidentally cut him. Like he needed more injuries.

  The tough girl in my head told me to suck it up, so I did.

  Clear-eyed, I sawed away the last of his leg restraints, cringing at the bright red ligature marks bisecting his shins. I knew how much those type of marks hurt, how deep the scars went, regardless if they were visible on the outside.

  I scooted around to cut the ties binding his arms.

  “He’ll fall off the chair if you cut those now,” Martinez advised.

  “Then you’d better hold on to him.”

  He braced Kell’s shoulders. “Where you gonna put him once he’s loose?”

  “In my room.”

  Just like that, Martinez retreated, letting Kell flop.

  Annoyed, I looked up. “What?”

  “I will not help you put another man in your bed.”

  Hell. This was the last thing I needed. His arrogance wasn’t new, but the possessiveness in his gaze was.

  I deliberately softened my voice. “Please, Tony, don’t do this. Not now.”

  His eyes stayed flat black. “Soon,” he said softly.

  My reactions were as muddled as my thoughts so I refocused on the main issue: moving Kell. “Can we just put him on the couch?”

  Martinez sighed.

  I took that as a yes.

  I hacked into the rope and kept up a running commentary. “He sprained his right arm and his left ankle yesterday hiking, so we need to make sure his right arm isn’t wedged against the couch. We’ll prop his left leg on a pillow once we get him prone.” I bit my lip. “He probably should go to the hospital.”

  “How will you explain his injuries?”

  “Good point. He doesn’t have health insurance anyway.”

  Not sure, but I think Martinez sighed again.

  When the cord broke free, Kell lurched forward.

  Martinez caught him.

  Somehow we half-dragged, half-carried Kell to the couch.

  The medicinal scent of antibiotic soap and the tang of antiseptic chased the stench of Tommy and Reggie from the air. Martinez skulked about as I cleaned up Kell’s bloody face. Then I wrapped a ba
g of frozen corn in a dishtowel and set it on Kell’s ankle while Tony continued to pace. I hated when people paced. However, I said nothing.

  As I gently slipped his arm back into the sling, Kell stirred.

  “Julie?”

  My fingers pushed the damp hair from his forehead. “I’m here. Don’t try to move, okay?”

  “Hurts,” he mumbled through swollen lips.

  “I know.”

  His eyes opened.

  Martinez had placed his hand on my shoulder and leaned in to peer at him too.

  Kell jerked then winced. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s okay,” I soothed, shrugging until Martinez removed his paw. “He’s one of the good guys.”

  What the hell was I saying? Since when had Tony Martinez become one of the good guys?

  Kell’s eyes drifted shut. “Wanna sleep.”

  Burned my ass that this gentle man had been used to hurt me. And yeah, it doubled the amount of guilt for my brusque attitude yesterday.

  I snagged the bottle of Tylenol with codeine from my medicine cabinet and shook out two pills. “Open up and swallow.”

  “Hey, that’s supposed to be my line.”

  I bit back a smile. Kell did have a sense of humor at the oddest times.

  Martinez didn’t find it funny; his laser gaze seared a bald spot in the back of my head.

  Kell’s lips parted. I popped the pills in his mouth and gave him a drink of water, dribbled most of it down his bloodied Grateful Dead T-shirt. I mopped him up and said, “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

  As soon as his breathing deepened I fumbled for my cigarettes and headed for the kitchen.

  Martinez followed a beat later but was smart enough not to speak.

  With so many thoughts racing in my head I knew I had to focus on one thing or I’d go crazy.

  Through all the harassment and pain inflicted on Kell on my behalf, I still wasn’t any closer to my main objective for this case: finding Chloe Black Dog.

  Did it matter? To who? Me? So I could convince myself I knew what the hell I was doing in the PI business? Or did it matter to Rondelle? Harvey? Martinez? Was it naïve to imagine she was safe? Maybe Chloe was better off if I didn’t find her.

  I smoked, staring out the ripped screen door. Weeds had popped up all over in my backyard again. I’d actually sprayed them this spring, more than once, at Mrs. Babbitt’s urging. Seemed no matter how hard I tried to fix something, make it better, or make it right, somehow I always screwed it up.