White Ghost Ridge

by Carol Coffey

  “And then you decided to go and see Mills,” Locklear said as he pieced the sequence of events together.

  “Albert was locked in a psych ward. They were treating him for paranoia. I went to see him. Felt sorry for him. His spine was fucked. He was in awful pain. Army were doing their best to make life a misery for him because he just wouldn’t shut up. Same happened to Torres. She was drinking very heavily by then. Lost her house cos she couldn’t make the repayments. Nick Hughes’ body was never recovered in Iraq. Fine print in his life insurance policy said no body, no payment. Albert and I talked about what we saw in those crates and what happened to the stuff. I didn’t know nothing about antiques but Albert did. I didn’t get an education but I had street smarts. Albert was smart in a different way. He knew everything there was to know about antiques, what they were worth, what kind of people bought them. Thing was he was locked in a loony bin and no-one would listen to him. He was sure those items were being sold here for big money to private collectors. It got me thinking. I start searching the internet, looking for artefacts for sale – and guess what?”

  Mendoza nodded and sighed.

  “There were fucking hundreds of priceless things for sale and not just from Iraq. You could pretty much find anything you wanted from anywhere in the world. I made contact with one of the sellers and used a false name. Pretended I was looking for something bigger. He put me in contact with a Mr Braff – no less. I knew straight away that it was the same Braff I served with. I turned up at the meeting I arranged but sat in my car across the street until I was sure it was him. I took photos of him sitting in his car with the go-between who I found out was a convicted criminal. There was another guy in the back. Then I drove off. Had a think about what I’d do that wouldn’t get me killed. I did a search for Walsh. I knew she was straight, knew she had nothing to do with what happened. She was easy to find. Got herself a good job in Washington. She didn’t need anyone knowing how she fucked up, how priceless Iraqi artefacts were being stolen right under her nose. Told her to put things right with me and the army or I’d start yelling.”

  Lewis trailed off and sat with a look of defiance on his face.

  “So Walsh put pressure on the army to compensate you?” Locklear said.

  “You’re smarter than you look,” Lewis replied.

  “And Torres?”

  Lewis rubbed his thigh again and the defiance slowly faded from his face.

  “Torres wouldn’t play ball. All she wanted was for the army to admit what had been going on. Like that would happen. I told her, get what the fuck you can because if you think the army cares about the truth, you’re crazy. Albert was intent on exposing what was happening to artefacts from his own community but he knew this thing was way bigger than that. He said he’d written to Walsh, told her all about it. Walsh never replied. You have no idea how big this is. It goes all the way to the top. Not just America. There are lots of people involved, high-profile people in Europe and Asia. People who wouldn’t want what they’re up to getting out.”

  “You could have offered Torres money. At the very least you could have helped get a roof over her head.”

  “I tried but Torres didn’t want my help. She kept fighting the army till there was no fight left in her. Eventually she gave up trying. Hit the bottle.”

  “But at least Torres kept her dignity,” Mendoza said.

  Lewis’s eyes darkened. “Dignity? You think Torres has dignity? Torres is a drunk who turns tricks just for food!”

  Mendoza stood. Locklear took her lead and together they made their way to the front door.

  Lewis followed and unlocked the metal shutter. He pulled it partially up and stood to one side. Mendoza ducked under the shutter.

  Locklear held his card out. “If you think of anything we need to know, phone my station. Ask for a cop called O’Brien. He’ll know how to get a message through to myself or Mendoza.”

  Lewis nodded and placed the card on a small table inside the door.

  Locklear hunched down to get under the shutter. Looking back at Lewis, he asked, “Where will we find Torres?”

  Patrick Lewis didn’t react at first, then raised the shutter further and stuck his head out. He looked up the street and motioned his head towards a blurred green light in the distance.

  “Happy Hour in O’Sullivan’s,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  Locklear took a seat in the far corner of the bar and ordered two steaks while Mendoza walked around the watering-hole looking for Torres. Locklear chose the seat due to its strategic location from where he could watch everyone entering and leaving the busy bar.

  Mendoza returned and sat heavily in the seat beside him and stared out into the crowd. She had just got off the phone from her son and her mother and was still upset by the conversation. He had listened in as they drove the short distance to the bar and gleaned that the kid’s father had been late taking him back to his grandmother and that, according to her, his trooper’s reformed Catholic ex-husband had been asking the kid about Mendoza’s drinking.

  Locklear had wanted for some time to talk to Mendoza about her drinking, about how she couldn’t seem to go more than a couple of nights without alcohol. It was a road he recognised and one he did not want her travelling. For some there was no turning back. He was one of the lucky ones but his sobriety was still a daily struggle to maintain.

  “Any sign of her?” he asked.

  “Not yet but this place is packed. Hard to see through the crowd. But I see you didn’t order me a beer,” Mendoza said as she lifted a soda from the dirty tabletop.

  “You’re on duty,” Locklear replied quietly.

  Mendoza shrugged. “I’m officially on vacation,” she retorted.

  “I’ve been thinking about the word INTENT and the fact that even O’Brien can’t seem to find anything on this. I wonder if it’s some underground organisation which is working to expose the theft of artefacts?”

  The waitress arrived and placed two huge steaks on the table in front of them.

  Mendoza lifted a French fry from her plate and nodded. “You could be right. But if it is a secret organisation, how the hell are we going to find who’s running it and from where?”

  “When we check into the motel, search Whitefeather’s laptop and see if you can come up with anything.”

  Mendoza mock-saluted her boss and pulled her chair closer to the table to eat. Locklear was still munching his way through the well-done steak after she had cleared her plate.

  Mendoza nudged him with her foot under the table and nodded towards the bar where a woman dressed in a khaki vest and army fatigues was climbing onto a high bar stool.

  “Looks like we found Torres,” she said.

  Locklear looked the thin woman over and nodded. The ex-army private looked just as Lewis had described her. Sandra Torres’ black hair was shorn tight into her head. Locklear could see the faint outline of a tattoo of an American flag on her right arm.

  Mendoza finished her soda in one gulp.

  “I got this,” she said as she stood. She made her way over to the bar.

  Locklear watched from his corner as Mendoza signalled the barman for a beer. She glanced back at him, grinning, and he frowned and shook his head.

  “Hi,” Mendoza said as she lifted herself onto the bar stool beside Torres which had just been vacated by a man who had obviously tried and failed to chat her up.

  Mendoza tried not to look at the vertical scar that ran above and below Torres’ left eye or the poor-quality glass eye which was smaller and a lighter colour than Torres’ remaining dark-brown iris.

  Torres studied Mendoza in return. She looked over Mendoza’s unflattering suit pants and loose-fitting shirt and then focused on her eager face.

  “I’m not gay,” Torres said.

  Mendoza, unperturbed, persisted. “That’s not why I sat here.”

  “Good,” Torres replied.

  “I’m a cop,” Mendoza added.

  Torres put down her
beer and swung around to face Mendoza. She did not speak.

  “I’m investigating the death of Albert Whitefeather. You would have known him in Iraq as Albert Mills.”

  “Who asked you to speak to me?” Torres asked nervously as her eyes darted around the packed room. If she noticed Locklear sitting in the corner staring, she did not say anything. Mendoza could feel her boss’s eyes bore into her as he watched her interview a person in a less than professional setting.

  “A friend of yours – Patrick Lewis,” Mendoza replied.

  “He’s no fucking friend of mine,” Torres replied.

  “You were in Iraq with Lewis. And with Mills. Lewis said you sometimes used to sleep at his place.”

  Torres laughed. “Once. When I was wasted. I don’t even remember getting there. Seems Lewis was in a bar I was drinking in and took me home when I made a fool of myself. That was a few years back so he if told you we’re friends, he’s a fucking liar. Lewis is a sell-out. A phony.”

  Mendoza suddenly realised that Torres was slightly inebriated and must have been drinking in another area of the bar or someplace else before she arrived in O’Sullivan’s.

  “Can I get you a beer?” Mendoza asked.

  Torres took her cigarettes off the bar and lit one. “Whiskey,” she replied.

  Mendoza ordered a whiskey and another beer for herself. They sat in silence until the drinks came.

  Mendoza picked up the bottle and drank the beer down in three long gulps.

  Torres smiled. “I was on my last five dollars. Good job you showed up,” she said and she downed the amber liquid in one. She shivered from the rush as Mendoza raised a hand and signalled for another round.

  She shoved the second drink in front of Torres.

  “Tell me all you know about Whitefeather,” she said.

  “I’ll need to be a bit more drunk than this,” Torres replied, downing the second whiskey. “And make them doubles.”

  Mendoza raised her hand again and the barman approached, this time with the whiskey bottle.

  From his seat Locklear could see him eye Mendoza carefully. He saw him glare meaningfully at Torres as he filled her glass, as if in warning. By the dismissive wave of the woman’s hand, Locklear knew that he had figured Mendoza was a cop and was protecting a regular from being questioned under the influence.

  The barman shrugged, added a glass for Mendoza and poured. Locklear cringed from his seat and, unable to watch, looked away into the crowd and instead watched a band setting up for the night.

  He couldn’t help but glance back occasionally at the bar. Torres was talking. A lot. He hoped Mendoza was getting something useful out of her while simultaneously feeling guilty that Mendoza was interviewing someone under these conditions.

  Time passed and the women kept on drinking. At last Locklear could not sit by any longer. He stood and walked to the bar.

  As Mendoza raised her hand to order another round of drinks Locklear pulled it down roughly and held onto it.

  “You’ve had enough to drink,” he said.

  “Who’s this? Your dad?” Torres sneered.

  Mendoza belched and laughed. “He thinks he is – he’s my boss,” she slurred. “Sarge, this is Sandra. Sandra, this is Detective Sergeant O. Locklear. No-one knows what the O stands for. It’s a secret.”

  “You’re drunk,” Locklear hissed.

  Mendoza, surprised by the venom with which he uttered those words, seemed to suddenly sober up.

  “Sarge!” she replied.

  Locklear thought he could see a faint downturn of her lips. His trooper’s eyes welled up. He took her by both hands and pulled her to her feet.

  Drawing her aside, he leant in close to her and lowered his voice.

  “This is wrong, Mendoza. You’re taking advantage of a vulnerable woman.”

  Mendoza nodded slightly and turned to look at Torres. Then she walked back to her.

  “I’m sorry. If you think of anything else, call this number and ask for O’Brien,” she whispered as she wrote down his name and the number for the station on a napkin. “Mention Detective Locklear.” She added his name to the napkin and handed it to Torres.

  Torres shrugged, stuck the napkin in her trouser pocket and turned her back on Mendoza. She nudged a grey-haired sporty-looking man standing at the bar beside her. When he turned to her, she wrapped her arms around him.

  “Johnny, get me a drink,” she pleaded.

  Johnny quickly ordered Torres’ next whiskey.

  Locklear drove to the nearest motel he could find. He paid for two rooms with cash and struggled to get Mendoza into hers. He lay her down on the bed and found she was snoring before he took her shoes off. He moved her hair from her face and stood there for a moment, then sighed and pulled the covers over her.

  He left a note on the bedside locker telling her where they were and his room number.

  He closed the door gently and went to his own room where he sat for an hour before lying down fully clothed on yet another uncomfortable bed. He watched the stars glimmer in the dark night sky through the blinds which he had only half closed. An hour passed, then two, as the details of the case floated in his troubled mind. When he finally slept all he could hear was Mendoza’s voice laughing about his undisclosed first name and her question the day before about whether or not his mother had had a name other than the Indian name she used. The realisation that there might be a record of his mother somewhere, a record under a name he had no way of discovering, marred his dreams as he tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed.

  He woke to the sound of banging on his door. He jumped up in the darkened room and, unsure where he was, waited a moment while the sound of knocking continued. He turned on a table lamp and opened the door.

  Mendoza stood there, pale, shaken and barefoot.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was unprofessional. I’m sorry. It was just ... that call from my mom. It upset me. I wasn’t thinking straight. Santy and this job are all I have. I think Manuel is trying to take him from me. Then, that look you gave me in the bar. It hurt. I don’t want to lose your respect.” She started to cry.

  He put his arm around her and led her into the room.

  “Can I stay here? I don’t want to be on my own tonight.”

  Locklear sat her on the bed. He pulled the covers back and beckoned for her to lie down.

  She lay back and watched as he moved to the table under the window and sat on the hard plastic chair.

  “I don’t mind if you sleep in the bed too,” she said.

  Locklear remained where he was and stared out at what remained of the night. He listened to her faint snores as the sky brightened and then fell into a deep sleep, his chin sunk down on his chest.

  When Locklear woke the sun was high in the summer sky and Mendoza was gone. His neck and back ached and, when he stood, he found that so did the rest of his muscles. He rotated his head and stretched in an attempt to loosen up.

  He was relieved to see a coffee machine in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there when they’d checked in the night before. He made coffee and drank it quickly while he thought about what their next steps might be.

  He quickly showered and gathered his belongings and knocked lightly on Mendoza’s motel-room door. When she opened it Locklear could see the signs of a heavy hangover on her face. She was showered and dressed but there were deep lines underneath her eyes and he could still get the faint aroma of whiskey from her breath.

  She looked guiltily at the ground and stood aside for him to come in.

  “Sarge, I …”

  Locklear raised his hand to stop her.

  “Forget it, Mendoza. I made a lot of mistakes when I was drinking. Did a lot of stupid things. But I do want to say, as your friend, that you need to look at your drinking.”

  Mendoza nodded but kept her eyes on the linoleum floor.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

&n
bsp; “Always,” she said and smiled.

  Locklear waited while Mendoza packed up her things. When she had finished, she zipped up her case and opened the door.

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “Vermillion,” he replied.

  Mendoza eyed her boss quizzically.

  “University of South Dakota. Think it’s time we talked to its dean.”

  Chapter 12

  The large breakfast Mendoza and Locklear ate in yet another forgettable diner did little to make Mendoza feel any better. Her head ached mercilessly and her stomach churned from the effects of the copious amounts of whiskey she had drunk the night before. Locklear, knowing her blood-alcohol level would be still above the driving limit, insisted on driving despite his fatigue.

  “Sorry for keeping you up half the night,” Mendoza said to her silent companion.

  Locklear smiled a half smile and shrugged. “I guess I’ve had better reasons for a woman to keep me up all night.”

  “Yeah, and I guess that was more fun!” she said, smiling through the pain.

  She glanced at her boss.

  “Can I explain my behaviour, sarge? I feel like we need to clear the air.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “I need to.”

  Locklear sighed. “OK.”

  “I was upset about the call from my mom and I have a feeling Manuel’s trying to take Santy from me.”

  “You already told me that last night when you came to my room – and said you were sorry.”

  “Did I? Can’t remember.”

  “But, Mendoza, how could Manuel take Santy? He hasn’t seen the kid in years and he was violent when he was married to you. Goddamn it, he even hit your son. No court in this country is going to give him custody of Santy.”

  “I hope you’re right, sarge. He’s trying to paint himself as a reformed man but I know he’s not. I feel that something is up with all of this Christian-movement stuff. Mom thinks he’s changed. She says he’s even living in some commune that offers homes to single women and their children.”