by Pamela Cowan
“Grace Evers. Would you tell me what you charge.”
After she explained her rates Ms. Evers agreed to the terms. Then they set up a day and time, later in the week, when they could meet.
Perfect, a new job and a chance to use the motion activated hidden camera she’d recently bought. The thing was expensive and now it could start earning its keep. Plus, the case seemed simple. Just a sneaky weirdo to deal with. It would feel great to catch the maintenance man in action and prove her client right.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monday, September 10
After talking to Grace Evers, Emma got to work, stopping around one o’clock to have some yogurt and a banana for lunch. By then she was sick of paperwork, so she closed up the office and headed for her car.
Twenty minutes later she was on the highway at the south edge of town. She took the last exit and drove into an industrial complex. Turning in she followed a winding road until she reached the back of the lot and a squat brick building. Sunlight flashed off a set of wide double-glass doors. The sign above them, VR Tactical, was easy to spot.
As she pulled in front and parked Emma realized that, since attending the open house nearly a year ago, she hadn’t been back to her sister’s place of business.
As she thought about it, she wondered if El took her absence as a lack of support or interest. She hoped not. It had nothing to do with El. it was just that although the store had everything a gun buyer might want, Emma already had a gun, and no desire to own more. The shooting range was state of the art, but Emma preferred to shoot at a canyon wall, where the sound echoed off the surrounding hills. She had no desire to fire at a wall, even if it was a full containment bullet trap, stuffed with rubber, in a soundproof room, as her sister had bragged at the open house.
Once inside, she saw glass front cabinets holding handguns, and walls lined with rifles and shotguns. In key positions across the dark gray linoleum floor, display racks held every imaginable accessory, from holsters to safety glasses.
However, the thing that caught her immediate attention was a moose head. It was mounted on the back wall above a door marked “Firing Range” and had definitely not been there the last time. She would have remembered it. It was enormous. Unlike most of the mounted heads Emma had seen, this one looked neither dusty nor molting. Its fur had a sheen to it, the giant curve of antlers seemed polished, and the glass eyes stared down with a sort of majestic tolerance.
“That’s Desna,” a voice said, and she broke her wide-eyed tourist gaze of the moose head, to look at a man standing behind the counter near the cash register. “Des for short,” he said. It’s Aleut. I think it means the boss.”
“It fits,” she said, sparing one more glance at the six-foot-wide antlers and the all-knowing eyes before turning her attention back to him.
A good P.I. would be able to look at someone and describe them in court. That was the excuse she gave herself as she carefully scanned him, noting that he average in height, maybe a couple inches under six feet with wide shoulders and narrow hips. He wore a black t-shirt with the company logo and it was impossible not to notice how the shirt stretched over those broad shoulders, muscular arms and pronounced abs.
“How can I help you?” he asked, his words echoing slightly. They seemed to be the only ones in the store.
Stepping closer, she guessed he was in his thirties. His skin was tanned, with small lines at the corners of his eyes that hinted at time spent outdoors. He was close shaven, his hair and eyes dark, nearly black. He had a square jawline, a strong chin, a sort of movie star bad guy look, softened by the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled.
“Is Ellen here?” she asked.
“She’s on the range right now, with a couple customers.” He checked the bulky black sports watch he wore. “She should be done in ten minutes or so. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m her sister. I’ll just wait for her.”
“Oh, it’s nice to finally meet you, I’m your sister’s partner, Leonys, but everyone calls me Leo.”
“What happened to Vargus? I thought he was her partner.”
“Ah, that’s my last name; only your sister calls me that.”
He reached out his hand and taking it, she realized her description hadn’t quite captured him. Sure, it was possible to note the white teeth in the friendly grin, but not why it made her respond with a grin of her own. Or why, when their eyes met, it was hard for her to look away. Or how a calloused handshake could stir a response she hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe it was because he was just damn hot. Maybe, it was as simple as that.
He’d been out of the country during the shop’s opening, so Emma hadn’t met him. In fact, he seemed to travel a lot, at least El had complained about it more than once. Though, to be honest, she hadn’t complained that much. After all, the agreement seemed to be that Leo provided the money and El provided the time. Each of them seemed to be living up to their part.
All Emma knew about Leo was that he’d been born in Cuba, that he and El had worked together in the army, and that when he inherited some money, they decided to leave the service and open a business together.
Just then, the door to the firing range opened and El and three men walked into the room. Each carried a range bag with their guns safely zipped inside. The men were in their early twenties, she thought, and were completely focused on El. Emma had to admit her sister looked good. Her hair was held back out of her face by the tinted safety glasses she’d pushed onto her head. She wore hiking boots, khaki green pants, and the same company t-shirt that Leo was wearing. It was just as snug as Leo’s and showed off how toned she was.
Seeing Emma, Ellen led the men to the counter and handed Vargus her bag. “Lock it up for me, would you? Vargus will help you with that order,” she said to one of the customers, and gave him a bright smile before turning her attention to Emma.
“Hey, what brings you here?” she said. “Finally going to replace that ancient revolver of yours?”
“And have to go to all the trouble of policing my brass when I finally get around to shooting someone? I think not.”
“But you could shoot them so much faster,” Ellen said, with a phony redneck drawl.
“As appealing as that sounds . . . “Emma let her response trail off. “I have to run out to the reservation. I want to interview the man who took out the policy on the warehouse. He lives there and I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”
Though Emma didn’t think she needed help, she’d realized it wouldn’t hurt to have company for the long drive.
“I wish I could,” Ellen said, “but I have a class coming this afternoon. A group of women who insist on a woman instructor.”
“Have they seen Leo?” Emma asked, casting a sidelong glance at him. He stood talking with the trio of younger men who seemed to hang on his every word. Though not the tallest or the toughest looking, he somehow had more of a presence than the others.
“Oh no, you don't,” said Ellen softly. “No crushing on my business partner. Mixing business and romance never works.”
“It’s not my business,” Emma reminded her sister. “He’s not my business partner. Also, I’m not crushing on him, or anyone. What does that even mean? What are you watching on television these days?”
“There are stalking laws,” Ellen noted, hands on her hips.
“I’m not stalking, I’m admiring,” Emma told her sister.
“Well stop admiring. Since I can’t go with you, I was thinking he could go in my place, but only if you keep your hands to yourself.”
Emma didn’t know what to say at first but then, blushing slightly, said, “I would never. I can control myself. At least for one car ride.”
“Oh please. We both know better.”
“Besides,” said Emma, “I wasn’t looking for help, just company.”
“I’m sure you don’t think you need help, but I know some of the people around there are pretty rough. I’
d feel better if he went with you.”
Emma sighed. “If he wants to go, fine.”
“Hey Vargus,” Ellen said, walking up to the counter as the three customers left, a small bell on the door signaling their departure. “Would you mind taking a little road trip with my sister? It would be a great way for you two to get to know each other. She has to talk to someone on the reservation, someone she’s investigating, and she could use some back up.”
He turned and looked at Emma. She felt his gaze slip across her like fingertips, leaving a warmth she was both drawn to and irritated by.
“I don’t really need back up,” she told him. “I was just looking for company. If you have to work . . . Doesn’t he have to work?” she said, breaking his glance and looking at Ellen.
“Nope, no regular hours,” Ellen said, a note of glee in her tone. “He comes and goes as he pleases. My morning guy called in sick but I have someone coming in this afternoon. She’ll watch the store while I’m training. She'll be here in,” She pulled her phone from her pocket, took a quick look and said, “about half an hour. So, if you want to run down there with her?” Ellen said, looking at Leo.
“I would love to run off somewhere with your sister,” he replied, then winked at Emma to show he was kidding.
Neither sister bought it.
“Not run off, you big jerk, run down, as in head south,” said Ellen. “The guy she has to see might be some sort of psychotic mouth breathing thug. So of course, since I can’t go, the first person I thought of was you.”
“How could you not?” he asked, appearing to admire his knuckles.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday, September 10
Until recently, Charles “Jelly” Jamison, had been second in command of WIP, which stood for, We Indigenous People. WIP was an organized criminal gang with members from various Native American tribes: Maklak and Yaas from the local area, a Modoc from Klamath, even a white guy who had been adopted and eventually made a blood brother. Skin mattered, sure, and blood mattered, but what WIP really cared about was loyalty, and selling drugs.
Jelly had always been very good at his work, and had believed himself to be a loyal member of WIP, but now questioned if that was true. The half bottle of cheap whisky burning in his gut was not lending any clarity.
He was sitting on an old rusty swing in his cousin’s backyard. The sun was warm on his shoulders. A breeze pushed clouds across the blue sky, sweeping them toward the low range of mountains to the west.
Kicking the toe of his boot into the dirt made the swing move a few inches. It creaked in protest.
Behind him the sprawling ranch style house sat empty. His cousins had gone off to a Pow Wow somewhere and he had stopped by to make sure the cattle had water and the dog had food. Both were fine and now he was just sitting, taking slow sips of his cousin’s whisky, about as mellow as turpentine, and trying to remember what part of the conversation last week had gotten him to agree to kill his boss, Dodge.
It had been a face-to-face meeting. Murder isn’t something you want to plan over the phone. So, they’d decided to meet at Redwing Trailhead. One of the spots along the rails to trails hiking path that ran through town and well beyond. From the trailhead south the path cut through open range grazing land. Between the piles of cow manure and the occasional angry steer it wasn’t a big draw to hikers or bicyclists. It was unlikely they’d be seen.
Jelly had arrived early and was sitting on the top of one of the two picnic tables, his feet on the bench seat, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. On the outside, a vision of patient waiting, while on the inside his emotions ping ponged from bored to anxious and back again. He was relieved when he finally spotted a dark gray SUV in the distance. Moments later, Beale pulled into the gravel parking lot.
As he watched the tall man get out of his car, Jelly thought that in pressed jeans, white shirt, blazer and cowboy boots Beale looked like a young Kitzhaber, former Governor of Oregon. He was probably less politically ambitious however, seeming content with his job as chief assistant district attorney. Or perhaps it was only that, as the biggest drug importer in the county, it served him to stay out of the limelight. He probably got a big laugh out of seeing the district attorney in the paper or on TV. He played at being a celebrity, while Beale sat in the background and made money like one.
* * *
The Indian moved over and Beale climbed up and sat far enough away so he could half turn and look him in the face. Dodge’s Lieutenant, second in command of WIP, wore biker boots, faded jeans, and a red-checked shirt over a blue t-shirt. He had jet black hair, cut military short, a wide face, thin lips, and a nose that looked like it had been flattened a time or two. Of course, that could just be the Indian showing through. He also had brown eyes, shiny and sharp as obsidian. They seemed to pin him in place and examine him, for what he wasn’t sure. He broke their gaze first, reaching for a pack of cigarettes in his inner jacket pocket. He held out the pack, “Smoke?”
Jelly shook his head no, so he lit one for himself. Took a long drag. Let it out slowly. “We’ve got a problem.”
Jelly waited, and said nothing.
“I had a meeting with Dodge a couple days ago. He’s fucking crazy.”
Jelly nodded. “Everyone knows that.”
“Well, yeah, but he’s getting crazier, like he needs to be locked up crazy.”
“How so?”
“We were going to meet at the warehouse, the one WIP bought a few years ago. The one down on Market. I was late, got held up after work.”
“Dodge don’t like waiting for people,” Jelly said.
“No shit?” Beale took a short nervous draw on his cigarette. “The crazy bastard set the warehouse on fire. When I rolled up the damn thing was nearly engulfed, flames everywhere.”
He remembered the scene. The way Dodge stood near the doorway, staring at the fire, a short, barrel chested man, his silhouette made even larger by the bulk of his heavy brown coat. As Beale came up on him, Dodge turned quickly, his twin braids swinging, his lips pulled back in a grin so wide his teeth flashed white. He looked as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.
“What the hell happened?” he’d asked Dodge. Not yet ready to believe he’d started the fire.
“Beauty isn’t it? Got bored waiting. Had to find something to do, didn’t I? Things in my name. Makes it mine, right? Do what I want with it.”
The grin never left his face. Beale should have realized that Dodge wasn’t right and shouldn’t be messed with, but all he could think of at the moment was the attention the fire could draw. The danger too much attention could put the whole organization in.
“You crazy son-of-a-bitch!” he’d shouted, and he’d put both hands on Dodge’s chest and pushed hard. The man didn’t budge. Even his smile remained the same. Immediately Beale realized his mistake, but had only enough time to feel an icy ripple along his spine before Dodge reached for him. But instead of the knife or fist he expected, Dodge tore Beale’s keys from his hand and threw them deep into the warehouse. Then he laughed.
“What the h-hell?” He’d demanded. His voice, breaking like a little boy’s. He’d been so angry he’d even taken a few steps toward the inferno before feeling the intensity of the heat and quickly backing away. “Why the fuck did you do that?” Frustration and rage had driven out his fear of the man, at least momentarily. “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you get to rape enough people this week? Damn you. That’s not even my car. What the hell, Dodge. What were you think—?”
He turned to where he thought Dodge was standing, his tone already becoming more conciliatory as he realized the rape comment would probably not be taken well. But Dodge was climbing into the black Camaro he’d left nearby. Beale saw the door slam shut as it was moving away. The Camaro’s pipes were so loud he could hear them, even over the roaring fire.
The car he had borrowed, and no longer had keys for, was parked two blocks away on the other side of the street. Expecting fire trucks at a
ny moment, Beale knew he had to get the hell out of there before someone recognized him.
Turning in the opposite direction, he walked away quickly, his long strides carrying him to the corner. By then he could hear the sirens. Too many people knew him. He was sweating. Had to get under cover. There was a Dairy Queen on the corner, closed and dark. He headed that way. Behind the restaurant was a trio of dumpsters. He hunkered down behind one and stayed in the shadows as the first truck’s lights swept by. The light didn’t penetrate the place where he stood hiding.
Once he knew the coast was clear, he slipped out and walked toward downtown. There was a neighborhood bar not too far away. Taking out his phone he searched for a cab company and called them. They said they’d send a driver to pick him up at the bar in about half an hour. His disheveled look and trembling hands would be mistaken as the effects of too much drinking. No one would connect him to the fire only blocks away.
Shaking off the memory, he came back to the present, and looking at Jelly, said, “Dodge set the fire and destroyed a valuable piece of property for no good reason. Worse than that, there’s been more than one time his name has come up at work. Everyone knows he’s a rapist. Eventually someone is going to file a complaint. If that happens, I’m betting a lot of women will come forward. That will start an investigation into him and everyone associated with him. We don’t want that. Then there’s the Padillo thing.
* * *
Jelly stared down at the graffiti-scarred table and offered nothing about the incident, even though he remembered it clearly.
He’d been at Dodge’s house, waiting for him. When Dodge got there he’d been so high and drunk that when he tried to sit on the couch he’d slid down the front of it and ended up on the floor. He stayed there, legs sprawled out, head bent forward, his braids nearly touching the floor. Later on he’d told, no he’d bragged, to Jelly about what he’d done.
Jelly was so disturbed by the memory that he couldn’t share the whole truth with Beale. He’d never mentioned that Dodge had gone to Miguel Padillo’s house and was raping him in front of his children when his wife came home. He didn’t share how Miguel had tried to use the distraction to try to get to his gun cabinet, or that Dodge had shot and killed him in front of his family.
