by Pamela Cowan
“Mom never hits me,” Bonnie said, in a tone that sounded a lot like bragging. “She got in trouble with her boss is all. He told her if he could have sex with me she could keep her job. She asked me if it was okay and I said it was. She didn’t know he was gonna tie me up or punch me.”
Willy shook his head but he wasn’t really all that surprised. Loyalty was the first thing you learned out here. Defending family against other people, the law, the government. It was the same reason he’d driven out here, hauling wood for a woman he didn’t know, but who had married into his family. It was what you did. Still, it made his stomach hurt. Pressing his thumb against his lower lip he chewed on the inside of his mouth, a nervous habit. “Okay, she didn’t know he was gonna hit you but she knew he was gonna—ah hell.”
“Yeah, she ain’t winning no mother of the year award, that’s for sure,” Bonnie agreed, with a passive acceptance that broke his heart.
“Who’s your mom’s boss?” Willy asked, already fantasizing ramming his truck through the window of some fast food place, or beating the crap out of some guy at a gas station. The only job he could imagine for Leena was waitress, or gas jockey.
“Dodge,” she said.
Willy’s imagined scenarios disappeared like a puff of gun smoke. His heart hammered as adrenaline blew through his body, flooding his brain and muscles with oxygen and glucose, preparing him to run or fight. He didn’t want to do either. Or he wanted to do both. He wasn’t sure. So he smacked his gloved hands together and said, “Well, let’s get to work.”
They unloaded the firewood in what seemed like record time. Either it really did go quickly, or time had decided to speed up. It was like when he had a test back in school. Even though it was supposed to be a week away it always seemed to sneak up on him.
“Your drink’s gettin’ cold,” Leena warned him. She was in the kitchen, he and Bonnie stood beside the wall of firewood in the living room.
He could barely make himself look at her. “Changed my mind,” he said. “Give it to Bonnie would you? I just remembered I got some beer in the truck and milk and beer don’t mix.”
“Well, I guess not,” she said, with a lighthearted lilt that made him want to slap her lips off. “Though I just mixed water with the chocolate. There shouldn’t be any milk in there.”
Willy didn’t even raise his eyebrows at the stupidity of the woman. He had much bigger issues with her than her intelligence, and it was taking all he had not to call her out for what she’d let Dodge do to Bonnie. The only thing that stopped him was the realization that using logic on an addict was as dumb as cooking with a wooden frying pan.
For a moment Willy considered walking over Deer Bone Ridge to Dodge’s place. It would be faster than driving, but he didn’t trust Leena not to sell his truck while he was gone.
Without the load of firewood, his truck rode better, and he pushed it hard getting away from Jansen’s Mill and the nasty woman his uncle had married. The tires chirped as he left the gravel and bumped onto the asphalt highway.
Willy thought about his parents for a moment. His mother had died when he was too young to remember her. His best memories of his father were going out duck hunting with him. Before he could lift a rifle, he’d been the retriever, running into the marsh to find dead or wounded birds and bring them back. It was the most fun he could remember having as a kid.
His father, William Keene, known to the locals as The Banker, had a lockbox welded to the floor in the cab of his truck. Inside, he kept thousands in cash and a tidy stack of IOUs. That was why Willy knew exactly who Dodge was and how to get to his place.
Dodge’s mother had been one of his father’s best customers. A woman who always paid her debts when the tribal money came in. Over the years Willy had been out to their house with his dad at least a dozen times. Getting there wasn’t the problem. The problem was—what the hell did he think he was doing?
Digging under the front seat, he came up with a bottle of whiskey. Putting it between his legs, he drove one handed while unscrewing the top, which he set on the seat beside him. He took a big swig, his eyes teared up and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he took another slug.
His pickup drifted a bit and he had to steer back into his own lane as a huge diesel, hauling two trailers full of logs, roared by. A few minutes later he turned onto Muddy Creek Road, headed toward Dodge’s and an increasingly uncertain future.
By the time he reached Dodge’s place, a ranch on the south boundary of the reservation, he was drunk enough to have to concentrate hard to keep his truck on the road and not in the ditch.
When he reached the house he saw an old truck parked by the barn and Dodge’s well-known black Camaro sitting out front. Willy swung the truck through the parking lot and backed up alongside the Camaro, leaving plenty of room between the two vehicles. He was still sober enough to know he might need to make a quick getaway.
Dodge had a reputation as a drug dealer with a violent streak. There were rumors about things he’d done that could make you sweat, but the few times Willy had talked to the man he’d seemed decent enough. At least he’d always had a big welcoming smile for The Banker.
Willy wasn’t planning to get in a fight. He just wanted to talk to Dodge man to man, neighbor to neighbor, so to speak. Folks who had lived on or near the res for generations had to stick together. Folks who lived at Jansen's Mill did generally get thought of and treated as trash. Dodge probably didn’t even know Bonnie and her mom were related to The Banker. He didn’t know Willy had been keeping an eye on them. He’d explain to Dodge that they were family and that he, Willy, would appreciate it if he kept his goddamn hands and his dick away from his cousin.
Willy’s hands tightened on the wheel. He sat a moment and tried a little self-talk. Wouldn't do a bit of good to lose his temper. Better to have a plan, maybe offer some sort of trade. There was always something people wanted. Spare parts for the Camaro? Something else?
Then he realized what he had to do. Pretend he didn’t know what Dodge had done. Let him know that Bonnie was his cousin, and more importantly, The Banker’s niece. She was family, and you don’t want to piss off The Banker.
He’d ask Dodge to keep an eye out for her, tell him that The Banker was concerned about her. That should get it across to Dodge, with the least chance of Willy getting his ass kicked. Willy wondered if he should add that The Banker didn’t consider Leena family. The truth was, he didn’t give a damn what Dodge did to or with Leena. Then he realized that was just anger and too much whisky talking. Just let that go. Keep it simple.
Could he sell it though? Was it the best plan, or was there a simpler, easier way to deal with Dodge?
CHAPTER SIX
Monday, September 10
Emma got to her office late on Monday. It didn’t matter. There was no one there to care. A definite plus for being the owner and sole employee of Richland Investigations.
She’d spent the morning driving circles through the industrial area and surrounding neighborhood near the warehouse, just as she had the night before, with the same result. Her calls to the two local tow companies had resulted in the same outcome. Exactly nothing. No fancy car seen or towed.
Falling into her familiar routine, Emma grabbed the mail from the box outside the door. It had been delivered Friday but she’d worked from home that day, wandered around in the burnt out warehouse early that evening. Working not just when, but where she wanted, was yet another advantage of being her own boss.
She tossed the mail on her desk. Next, she hung her jacket and scarf on the slightly tilted brass coat rack the last tenant had left behind. After that: coffee. She filled the Keurig with water from the tap, risking an eventual mineral build up but enjoying the act of defiance. Her ex had been a fanatic about using only distilled water. It was worth the cost of a new coffee maker to thumb her nose at him on a daily basis.
Emma’s office was in a narrow one-story building along a wide covered alleyway perpendicular t
o Main Street. Her office was the last in line so received more natural light than the rest, which still wasn’t much.
Better, but not great light, was about the only thing the space had going for it. The view of the parking lot and of the brick rear wall of the US Bank building was certainly nothing to brag about.
The office was a fourteen-foot square room, with a row of metal file cabinets across the back wall covered with pots of gangly philodendrons. They were the only house plants that could survive in the dim space.
At the center of the office stood a large oak desk. Behind it was the ergonomic desk chair she’d splurged on. It was covered in buttery soft, light-brown leather. Facing the desk were two red leather guest chairs.
The wall to the right had a narrow buffet that held a coffee maker, an electric teapot, and all the paraphernalia that went with them. The wall to the left held a poster of Barney Fife from the “Andy Griffith Show,” and her framed Oregon private investigator’s license, as well as the door to the restroom she shared with her neighbor. A man who advertised that he sold pet and legal insurance, rarely had clients, and yet inexplicably seemed able to pay his rent.
Despite the room’s small size, lack of light, and rather sparse décor, after a year, it had become a comfortable, even welcoming, place for her to work.
She liked her office and she liked the town. Moving so much as kids, she and El hadn’t really had what people called a home town. Their dad had retired to Hollis, a small town in Eulalona County, Oregon, because there was a military base where he could take advantage of a VA clinic and other perks.
Within a year their mother announced she’d met someone and was moving to the East Coast. Once the shock wore off, the three of them had lived together for another year, in a sort of inactive state. Then, Ellen enlisted in the army and a little more than a year later Emma moved to Ashland, known for the Oregon Shakespeare festival and home to Southern Oregon University, where she started college.
Emma had believed her father would stay in Hollis. He’d found a part time job on base and seemed happy enough. He kept busy hunting, fishing and fixing up the house and sometimes went out for drinks with some new friends he’d made. Then a federal cost cutting came along and the base closed. While she was in her second year of college her father, grumbling about politicians and government, packed up and moved to Panama.
The little bit of stability she’d had was gone but Emma was stubborn. She was going to put down roots if it killed her. Why not here? It was just as good a place as anywhere, maybe better.
There was a lot to like about Hollis. Downtown, with its three-story brick and stucco buildings and its colorful awnings was well kept. The business owners and workers she’d met seemed mostly friendly and always willing to chat. It was small town America with a Starbucks on every corner and a solar farm in every other field. A nice combination of new and old. Even the big mural on the side of one of the largest buildings in the center of town seemed to reflect this.
The mural depicted the founders, part of a wagon train climbing a winding trail. At the base it was painted in sepia tones. From there up color was slowly introduced in scenes of fields filled with crops, rivers edged with flowers and a sky so blue it hurt your eyes. Across that sky roared with a trio of modern jet fighters that probably represented a fighter wing once assigned to the now defunct base. Honor the old and embrace the new. It was what Emma hoped she could achieve. Remember the past, fondly and without bitterness while being open to change and the future. It didn’t sound that impossible.
Ignoring her unopened mail, Emma dropped onto her desk chair and took out her phone. It was time to call Gwen and let her know what she’d found, though she hated how little it was.
After she’d filled her in, Gwen said, “But that isn’t really evidence of anything, is it? I mean, those keys could have been dropped by someone coming to look at the place, maybe to buy or lease it. Or maybe one of the firemen dropped them.”
“I doubt a fireman could afford the kind of car that key would start, but you have a point,” Emma sighed. She hated puzzles she couldn’t solve. Though she wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
“Should I go ahead and process the claim?” Gwen asked.
“Can you hold off for another couple of weeks? I want to look into a few things. Talk to some of the people in the area.” Emma didn’t share that the key fob was currently on its way to a lab in Virginia. Special favors, such as the one El had asked from her FBI friend, were best kept secret.
“Sure. That won’t be a problem. We need to get more pictures anyway. Processing can take as long as we need, up to a point. If you doubt me, ask anyone who ever put in an insurance claim,” Gwen chuckled.
“I have no doubt,” Emma said, laughing. “I think that’s a pretty well-known fact.”
“So, what are these things you’re looking into? What’s your next step?” Gwen asked.
Emma was amused by her friend’s undisguised interest in a private investigator’s work.
“I’m going to ask around the neighborhood to see if there’s been any unusual activity around the warehouse lately. That key fob got me thinking that maybe someone was using the place to work on cars.”
“You mean like a chop shop?” Gwen asked a little breathlessly.
Emma smiled. “Yes, just like that. Stolen cars, high-end ones, being taken apart for parts. Could explain the keys and the fire. Maybe it was an accident that happened in the process of committing a criminal act. I’m not sure if that would affect your payoff.”
“Oh, that would certainly affect things,” Gwen said, a happy lilt to her tone.
“I thought it might. I’m also going to drive down to the reservation and talk to the policy holder. Not to harass him or make him think he’s a suspect,” Emma said, forestalling Gwen’s inevitable protest. “I’m just going to tell him I need to clarify that he’s the owner of record, blah, blah, blah. You know, just another stickler for process representing the insurance company. If it feels right, I’ll ask if he knows of anyone who might have wanted to destroy his property. Who knows, maybe I’ll get something, maybe not.”
“I don’t know. I told you he came across as a pretty sketchy person. He could figure out what you’re up to and get angry.”
“Have some faith,” Emma said. “I can take care of myself.”
“Sure, but I’d feel better if you didn’t go there alone.”
“I’ll probably ask El to go.”
Gwen’s sigh of relief was both obvious and annoying. Everyone always thought that of the two sisters, El was the tough one, that she could handle herself in any situation.
It had always been that way and it wasn’t fair. After all, they’d both been army brats, raised on bases across the country and the world. They’d both had the same tough-as-nails father who insisted they learn hand-to-hand combat and have basic gun skills. He wasn’t around much, but by damn, his girls would know how to take care of themselves, and they did.
Their shared childhood didn’t matter. Her degree in criminal justice and her work as a licensed private investigator didn’t matter. None of it compared to El’s nine years in the army. First as military police and then as a criminal investigations special agent. Yes, her sister was a certified badass.
Still, she didn’t think it was fair that Gwen wanted her to take El along as some sort of bodyguard.
As if reading her thoughts, Gwen repeated herself, “You promise you’ll take El with you?”
“I promise I’ll ask,” said Emma. “Gotta run now.”
After she hung up she poured a cup of coffee and was surprised to see her hands shaking. She clenched them around the cup. Forced them to be still. You’re being childish and ridiculous, she told herself. Why are you so upset? You know asking your sister for help isn’t proof that you can’t do the job. It’s just smart. So what’s with the sibling rivalry? Is that what’s getting to you, or is it something else?
Not wanting to waste time on deep analysis,
she sat down and reached for her mail. The phone rang and she picked it up. “Hello?”
“Is this Richland Investigations?”
Embarrassed that she’d answered the phone in such an unprofessional way, Emma stumbled through her answer.
“Yes. Yes. This is Richland Investigations. Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s okay. We all get distracted. Could I speak to your boss?”
Another spike of shame as she realized the woman on the other end of the line obviously thought she was speaking to some young assistant who didn’t know how to answer a phone. She cleared her throat awkwardly and said, “I’m the boss, that is, the owner. This is Emma Richland.”
“Oh.” Emma cringed at the woman’s hesitation, but then she went on. “Well, good. I understand you’re a private investigator and that you help people with all sorts of problems.”
“Well, that depends. What sort of help do you need?”
“I think someone has been breaking into my apartment. I told the building manager but he doesn’t believe me. They won’t do anything to stop it.”
“Breaking in?” Emma asked. “Breaking in and taking things? You should call the police.”
“No. Nothing is taken. I think he just goes through my things. He tries to make it look like it’s the way I left it but it’s not. It’s very creepy.”
“I see. That is creepy,” Emma agreed. She picked up a pen and began rolling it between her fingers. “You said he. Do you have an idea who this person is?”
“Only one person has a key to my apartment. The maintenance man. I think it has to be him. Every time I go out grocery shopping or to run errands he must be letting himself in. When I get home I can tell things are different. I can even smell his cheap cologne and the cigars he smokes. I need to catch him so they’ll believe I’m not lying. Can you help me?
“I’d love to help you,” said Emma, and she meant it. The idea of someone invading this woman’s privacy, rummaging through their things. Oh yes, she’d love catching someone like that. “What was your name?”
