Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  A cupboard door banged. I stubbed out my cigarette in an empty can of garbanzo beans. Crossing to the sink, I pressed my butt against the counter and faced Martinez.

  “Here.” He handed me a glass of tequila.

  I wanted to refuse. Truth was, I needed that shot.

  I downed it before I did something noble and changed my mind.

  Martinez’s intense gaze focused on the spot where Reggie’s fist had tested the strength of my jaw. “You should take care of that.”

  “I will.”

  And just like that, I wanted Kevin.

  If he were here, he’d take care of it for me. Sure, he’d gripe about my tough girl act, pretend it was a pain to patch me up yet again, all the while his steady hands and serene eyes would soothe me.

  But he wasn’t here and Martinez wasn’t the coddling type, not that I would have accepted it even if he’d offered.

  Would I?

  Martinez said, “What was on that piece of paper Rondelle gave you?”

  “More ideas of where Chloe might be,” I fibbed without an ounce of remorse.

  “Had you planned on telling me?”

  I tossed my head. Ouch. Damn, that hurt. “Of course. Things got a little hectic today, remember?”

  His dark gaze made me feel like a bug under a microscope.

  As usual, I bristled. “What?”

  “Why didn’t you call me this morning after these guys approached you at your office?”

  “Because I’m not in the habit of running to my clients for protection, Martinez.”

  “Jesus, you are stubborn.”

  “So I’m told.”

  The refrigerator kicked on, filling the silence between us with white noise. Seemed we’d run out of things to say.

  Martinez raked his fingers through his hair. Paced to the door. Circled my chrome dinette set. Studied the lack of fine china in my antique oak buffet. Ended up in the exact same spot he’d started.

  His nerves surprised me so I cut him a break.

  “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that searching for one little girl has caused all this?”

  “Rondelle’s lies caused this, not Chloe.”

  “You still want me to find her?”

  “More than ever.”

  “Do you think she’s safe?”

  “I hope so.” His bootsteps were strangely quiet as he crossed the linoleum to stand in front of me.

  I didn’t budge when Martinez tentatively lifted his hand toward my face, his eyes riveted to the bump swelling on my jawbone.

  My heart thumped. I wanted his touch as much as I feared it.

  At the last second, he dropped his hand.

  “You’ve got my number, blondie. Call me.”

  He slipped out the back door, and I was glad he was gone.

  CHAPTER 13

  KELL SLEPT IN FITS AND STARTS.

  He had been a much better patient. Then again, I’d kept shoving painkillers down his throat and he hadn’t stayed awake long enough to complain.

  I sorted laundry. Washed sheets. Thought about making a pot roast. Was bored out of my skull by noon. Unfathomable, some women actually enjoyed this type of life. I sent a silent thanks to the feminist movement that had allowed me the choice.

  TV sucked during the day. I could only schlep around in ratty sweats for so long. Much as I grumbled, I liked my job. Wearing nice clothes and makeup, conversing with real people instead of yelling at the idiots on the Dr. Phil show. Even filing was better than sitting around waiting for mold to reappear in the bathroom.

  I smoked. I brooded. I called the sheriff to ask if Donovan’s condition had changed. Nope. Still critical. Evidently the doctors were leaving him in a drug-induced coma, in an effort to prevent permanent brain damage from his head injury. What if he woke up with amnesia?

  This whole scenario had changed from a simple parental custody dispute to one involving attempted murder and assault.

  What would Kevin do with this case? No brainer. Turn it over to the cops.

  Martinez expected me to handle it.

  I had this bizarre need to live up to the faith he had in me.

  Also, I needed to handle this case to prove I wasn’t just wasting my time as an investigator.

  Propped against the doorjamb, I watched Kell doze. Waking him seemed cruel, since he’d only just settled down.

  I wrote a note, even signed my name with a happy face, and placed it on his chest.

  Gun in my purse, I left quietly for the office.

  In my absence, we’d had quite a few calls, crank ones included.

  I’d come into Kevin’s employment fulltime after a case in which my bow had been used to kill a man. A horrible man who’d done unspeakable acts and had deserved to die. A man I’d been credited with killing in self-defense—a lie I maintained to protect the person who’d actually made the kill shot.

  My name and picture had appeared in the local news, both in print and on TV. The notoriety disturbed me, especially the nickname I’d picked up, “Redneck Xena.” Eventually the media attention had died down.

  The good aspect of the publicity was the agency had acquired new clients. The bad aspect? Kevin hadn’t been around to help me deal with the extra business. Or the assumption from some crazies that I’d liked killing so much I planned on making it a sideline.

  Every once in a while I’d get a proposal to off someone’s cheating spouse for a tidy sum of cash. Those contacts were forwarded to the RCPD. I’d even received several offers of marriage. Some strange, strange people inhabit the world.

  Two brisk knocks sounded on the outer door.

  Martinez?

  Why did my heart beat faster?

  I opened the door. No such luck. Three men stared back at me. Two young, lean, wiry types sandwiched a sausage-shaped man. “Can I help you guys?”

  “You Julie Collins?”

  “Got it on the first try. Who are you?”

  The pot-bellied one shifted away from the other two. “I’m Bud Linderman.”

  My mouth made an “O” of surprise.

  Not what I’d expected. Bud was in his early sixties. Thinning silver hair hung to his narrow shoulders, Elvis-like sideburns nearly reached the collar of his pearl snapped shirt. A bushy, gray mustache rode prominently below a crooked nose that’d been busted more than once.

  He wore a dung-colored western cut suit with white stitching, white piping, and white cowboy boots. A silver bolo tie, in the shape of a cow skull inlaid with alabaster, and matching belt buckle completed his ensemble. All he needed was a piece of straw in his mouth and he’d fit right in with the cast from Hee Haw.

  When he smiled, capped teeth shone like he was auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.

  “Can we come in?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I stepped aside and let them in, but left the door open. Didn’t care if they thought I was paranoid. I was. With good reason.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Bud motioned to the chairs in the reception area and the guys flanking him plopped into the seats like well-trained heelers commanded to sit.

  “I’d like to talk to you about a mutual friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Rondelle Eagle Tail.”

  My expression stayed blank.

  He exchanged a look with the gangly guy closest to him before he refocused on me. “Rondelle told me about your meeting with her Saturday night at Fat Bob’s.”

  “Then you also know that I can’t tell you what we talked about.”

  Frowning, he eyed the reception area. “Is there another place we can sit down and discuss this in private?”

  “We’ve got nothing to discuss.”

  “I disagree.”

  My shrug said I didn’t care.

  “Did you consider maybe I’m not interested in what you can tell me? But maybe you’d be interested in what I can tell you?”

  Okay. I’ll admit he’d captured my curiosity.

  “How about my office?”<
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  Again, his smile was a bit too slick and a bit too quick for my liking. “After you,” he said, gallantly sweeping out his arm.

  I settled in my chair and lit up while he not so subtly sized up the contents of my office. I let him. Gave me time to figure out how play this angle.

  His gaze wandered back to me. “Got a nice collection of local artists.”

  “Thank you. But you’d didn’t pop in uninvited to admire my taste in artwork.”

  My comment surprised him. He recovered quickly and drawled, “You’re a straight shooter, aren’t you? I like that.”

  “Cut the ‘good old boy’ crap, Linderman. I’m not in the mood. What do you want?”

  One silver eyebrow winged up in a parody of censure. “We’ll skip the pleasantries, then. I’m here because I’m worried about Rondelle.”

  “Why?”

  “Various reasons.”

  I waited for him to expound on those reasons: her job with the Carluccis, Donovan’s shooting, Chloe’s abrupt absence from her life.

  I inspected the tip of my cigarette and remembered what Donovan had said about Bud Linderman being a hard ass. Something reeked with this picture.

  “Seems odd, that you’re so worried about a former employee. Especially one who’s now working for your competition.”

  “Rondelle has always been more than just an employee; we’re practically family. She left my employ on good terms. The opportunity she was offered was too good to pass up.”

  A canned speech if I’d ever heard one.

  My focus honed back in on him. His gaze stayed steady. Had Rondelle told him the same “I’m-a-ho” lie she’d told Harvey about her new job with the Carluccis?

  “Was Rondelle’s position at The Golden Boot similar to the one she’d taken at Trader Pete’s?”

  “Not even close. When she worked for me she was a cocktail waitress. Period.”

  I exhaled. “Wasn’t she working the cage?”

  “Come now, Ms. Collins,” he chided with false humor, “I thought you were a straight shooter. Don’t pretend you don’t know what Rondelle was really doing upstairs in those private meeting rooms at Trader Pete’s.”

  Bingo. He didn’t have the real skinny. “I’m not in the business of conjecture, Mr. Linderman. What is it you’re trying to tell me?”

  “I’m concerned about what Rondelle might have told you. I don’t know why she dragged you into this mess when I offered to help her”—he smiled tightly—“for free.”

  “Well, you get what you pay for. What were you going to help her with?”

  “With the mess she’s gotten into with the Carluccis.”

  “Mess? Thought this was too good an opportunity for her to pass up?”

  “Might’ve started out that way. But I know the real truth about them now.”

  “Which is?”

  “Big ambitions.”

  “So?”

  “Ambitions don’t seem like such a bad thing at first, do they?”

  I blew smoke at him since he was blowing smoke at me. “Get to the fucking point or get out.”

  “Guys like Carlucci start out low profile. Acting like they want to be part of the community. Start out using local vendors. Sponsoring events. Hiring minorities. It’s all a big lie.” He huffed into his mustache. “Know why Big Joe Carlucci took an interest in Deadwood?”

  I cocked my head. His opinion ought to be enlightening.

  “He saw it as a laid-back hick town with huge potential. Before long they’ll own everything, the casinos, the banks, the resorts. If we allow it, our lives will change. We won’t be a quaint little western town with a notorious past, we’ll be like Vegas and Atlantic City, with mob problems galore and no future.”

  “Unlike you, who only has the people of Deadwood’s best interests at heart.”

  “See? Even you don’t believe it. No one wants to believe it; they think I’m being paranoid. But I know they’re breaking the law and thumbing their big Italian noses at us to get what they want.”

  “Is that your beef, Linderman? These guys don’t fit the Waspish western South Dakota ideals?”

  “No. You’re getting off track. I’m here strictly because I’m worried about Rondelle. When she told me what she’d discovered at that place, I urged her to turn the evidence in to the FBI.”

  Evidence. Bud Linderman knew about the disk.

  The pieces tumbled into place like three cherries on a slot machine. Linderman’s concern wasn’t for Rondelle; he wanted to use the disk as a business opportunity to run the competition out of Deadwood.

  “Why didn’t you turn them into the Deadwood Gaming Commission?”

  “The evidence needs to come from an unbiased source, not from me.”

  After my conversation with Rondelle, I know she wouldn’t have spilled her guts to this self-serving ass wipe, no matter how much he claimed she’d always been “more than just an employee.” Now I knew why Rondelle had told me not to trust anyone.

  I took my time extinguishing my cigarette. “If you’re so buddy-buddy with Rondelle, why aren’t you voicing these concerns to her? Why are you coming to me?”

  “I haven’t been able to get in touch with her. You saw her Saturday night. I wondered if she’d mentioned anything about her plans or where she’d be this week?”

  I studied his impassive face. Owning a string of casinos probably contributed heavily to his ability to bluff.

  My bluffing skills had improved, but I was nowhere near pro status. “We didn’t discuss her schedule.”

  “What did you discuss?”

  “That’s between me and Rondelle,” I said, with a toothy smile.

  His eyelids dropped to half-slits. “She told you about the disk, didn’t she?”

  I didn’t confirm or deny, although my unease with the situation grew when I thought about Rondelle telling anyone—especially this scumbag—what was on that recording.

  “Rondelle was supposed to give that disk to me,” he said.

  “Yeah? Why?”

  His shoulders slumped; his disillusioned sigh was almost believable. “So it didn’t get into the wrong hands.”

  The change in his body language was a dead giveaway. He was lying and I was absolutely dying to hear whatever bullshit explanation he’d just concocted. I waited, knowing it wouldn’t take long.

  “See, we were supposed to meet on Sunday. She was going to hand the disk over to me for safekeeping but she didn’t show up. I’m afraid the reason I haven’t heard from her is because she’s gone and done something stupid.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as using that disk to blackmail the people involved in it instead of turning it over to the proper authorities like we’d discussed. She could be in danger.”

  Danger? Blackmail? “Wow. I didn’t realize you were working with law enforcement, Linderman.”

  From the hallway outside the offices I heard the squeak of the handcart as Ralph the UPS guy went about his daily routine.

  “What?”

  “You just said she was going to give the disk to you. Somehow I doubt that you qualify as the ‘proper authorities’, unless of course, you are working with the Feds.”

  Caught in his own lie, his hand rose to the black cords of his bolo tie.

  I rested my forearms on my desk blotter. “Didn’t you tell me about two minutes ago that in order for the contents of that disk to be taken seriously by the Deadwood Gaming Commission, it’d have to come from someone other than you? Now you’re trying to convince me that Rondelle was willing to let you have it? For ‘safekeeping’?”

  I paused, enjoying his discomfort. “Wrong answer, Bud. I’m not that stupid and neither is Rondelle. I think you wanted that disk and she wouldn’t give it to you because she knew you’d use the disk for blackmail yourself.”

  Bud Linderman’s immediate good ol’ boy grin was so strained his mustache had stretched out six additional inches. “Now, that’s a downright fascinatin’ theory.”

 
; I batted my lashes, coquettishly bowed my head. Scarlett O’Hara would’ve shed a proud tear.

  “Except it’s wrong,” he said.

  “Then why don’t you tell me why you’re all fired up to get your hands on that disk?”

  “No. I don’t think I will.”

  I hadn’t been expecting that.

  He stood. “When you talk to Rondelle again, tell her it’d be in her best interest to call me.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “Remind her that I always get what I want. Always. And I want that damn disk.”

  Bud ambled to the door; his cowboy lackeys instantly materialized by his side like flies on horseshit.

  He turned. “One other thing. Tell her she’d better hope you find her daughter before I do.”

  My belly plunged like I’d swallowed a spur. No mistaking his meaning that time. Before I found my voice to demand how the hell he knew about Chloe, he’d rounded up his posse and they’d rode off.

  Had I really wanted to keep going with this case just to prove I could? I was in way over my head and sinking fast. Nothing made sense.

  I focused my frustration with Rondelle and anger at Bud Linderman on something productive. Pulling up the emergency number Rondelle had given me, I called it, left a message, and smoked while I waited.

  CHAPTER 14

  MY PREDICTION RONDELLE’S FRIEND WOULDN’T CALL back was short-lived. My cell rang at noon. The caller ID read: Rapid City pay phone. Uneasiness prickled my skin like a sudden rash.

  “Hello?”

  “Julie Collins?”

  No distorted computer voice.

  “Yes, this is Julie Collins,” I said.

  “I got your message.”

  “Good. I’m, ah, a friend of Rondelle’s.”

  “Yeah?”

  Silence.

  “You want proof?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay the word you’re waiting for is tiblo.” God. I felt like an idiot.

  Pause. “I’ll meet you at Storybook Island behind the Humpty Dumpty concession stand. Thirty minutes.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “You won’t. Tell me what you’ll be wearing and I’ll track you down.”

  Not exactly reassuring and plenty stupid on his part to think I’d blindly agree to his plan. “No dice. I need something more substantial to prove you really are a friend of Rondelle’s.”