Blood Ties (14 page)

“Because Dick only got a few licks in?” I joked.

“No.

Th

at Harvey didn’t get involved. He’s one mean mother.”

“Yeah?” I said picking the bits of gravel from my palm, sucking in my breath at the razor-sharp sting.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

Th

at comment tore my attention away from my torn skin. “Know what?”

“Th

at he’s the enforcer for Hombres.”

“Th

e local biker gang that ran the Hell’s Angels out of Sturgis a few years back?”

Jimmer winced. “Never call them a gang. Th ey’re a club.”

“So? What’s his connection to them?”

“Who do you think owns this bar?”

My mouth dropped open. “No shit?”

141

“No shit.” Jimmer pulled the slide back on the shotgun and the shells ejected out the side. He shoved them inside his fl ak jacket. “Let’s get out of here.”

He got no argument from Kevin or me.

With one tree trunk-sized arm slung over my shoulder, and the gun perched on the other, he looked the part of a true slinger. “So, where’d you learn those moves? Some pretty fancy fi ghting skills there, little missy.”

I hate it when Jimmer calls me “little missy.” He knows it, but does it anyway. Th

at’s just the way Jimmer

is. It was oddly comforting. Almost as comforting as when Kevin gently slipped his hand into mine.

“Oh, that? It’s nothing,” I said. “Little Ju-Jitsu, little
Buff y the Vampire Slayer.”

“You learned those moves from watching TV?”

“Yep. You might try watching something besides the

‘Playboy’ channel some time.”

Jimmer shook his head. “Forget it. I’d rather get my ass kicked.”

At Kevin’s condo, Jimmer said, “Why didn’t you guys tell me you were working a case involving Dick Friel?”

“We aren’t.” I popped four Excedrin and chased it down with the last of my soda. “Besides you’ve been gone.”

“Only on vacation,” Jimmer said as he set a Coors suit-case on the table, ripped it open and distributed beer: one for Kevin, one for me, three for himself.

Kevin shook his head. “
No one
vacations in Nicaragua.”

“Th

ank God.” Jimmer guzzled a beer and reached for another.

I tried grabbing my can but the frozen bag of peas Kevin held against my mouth pressed harder into my swollen lip.

“Ouch! Goddammit, that hurts.” I batted his hand away. “Its fi ne, it’s not your fault, so leave it alone.”

Kevin squatted down and gingerly brushed his lips over mine before he pulled back. “Quit being such a baby 143

and let me take care of it.”

“No. It’s fi ne.”

“Christ.

Th

is is getting old. Why don’t you two just fuck each other’s brains out and get it over with?” Jimmer punctuated his irritation with a loud belch.

Kevin and I both froze.

Discretion wasn’t Jimmer’s style. He claimed friends didn’t need that bullshit. After the freak kite electrocu-tion, which killed his younger brother Todd, we, as Todd’s friends, inherited Jimmer as our surrogate brother. Hence, he felt entitled to speak his mind. Freely. And unfortunately for us, frequently.

Kevin cracked open his beer, taking a long swallow.

His normally soothing voice was encased in steel. “Let it go, Jimmer.”

“Well, it’s the truth, even if you’re both too chickenshit to act on it.” Jimmer leaned his chair back against the wall and waited for further fi reworks to erupt.

“Can we get back to Dick Friel?” I said, trying for peace instead of my usual habit of saying the fi rst thing that popped in to my mind.

“Th

at guy is bad news. It was ludicrous to even think he’d talk to you. Especially when he’s surrounded by Tony’s goons.”

Ludicrous? Evidently Jimmer, the boxing nut, had been watching Mike Tyson interviews again. “Why?”

“Why do you think a fat, stupid, piece of shit like him 144

is so well-protected at Fat Bob’s?”

I sneaked a glance and Kevin and he shrugged.

Jimmer answered his own question. “Connections.

Rumor has it if you need any bike, and need it fast, Dick is the go-to man as long as you’re not too picky about serial numbers and have the cash.”

“So he’s traffi

cking stolen bikes? For Tony Martinez?”

“Possibly. I ain’t about to ask. Dick is small time. Bikes and the occasional insurance repair scam. Course, Dick does all the maintenance on the Hombres bikes so he’s ass deep in the organization. So, whatever Tony Martinez needs, Dick provides without question.”

“Could Dick have gotten involved in something else?”

“Such

as?”

“Drugs?”

Jimmer easily crushed the beer can in one hand. “I don’t know. Screw that. I don’t wanna know. Tony Martinez is another scary dude. You’d better stay far away from him too.”

“But, could Dick have somehow found something out he wasn’t supposed to and inadvertently pissed Tony off . . .”

“You’re going the wrong direction,” Kevin said.

“How so?” I demanded. “Maybe
Tony
owed Dick, hence all the protection.”

“Apparently keeping Dick happy ranks highly on Tony’s list of priorities if you can’t even talk to him in Tony’s bar. Consider this: Dick freaked about Sam and 145

Shelley, and before he did something stupid that threatened the setup he had with Tony, maybe Tony decided to do him a favor and deal with it.”

I gave him my skeptical look. “Without Dick’s knowledge?”

“Maybe Dick suspects something and that’s why he went after you when you asked him questions. Especially in Tony’s bar.”

To Jimmer I said, “Does Tony have the kind of connections to make Samantha go away permanently?”

Jimmer

nodded.

“But that doesn’t make sense. Why?”

“You tell me,” Kevin said. “You’re the one that thinks Dick Friel is guilty.”

“Don’t

you?”

“Not without a better motive. Too risky for both of them for something as inconsequential as paternity. It appears you and I are the only ones that weren’t aware of the connection between Tony and Dick. And if Tony did make Samantha disappear, he’s probably the fi rst person the local boys would look at.”

He stretched his legs out to get comfy before he imparted his theory.

“On the other hand, if Dick had something on Tony and blackmailed him, and Tony used Samantha as an example of what happened when someone crossed him, do you really think Dick would be hanging in Tony’s bar with 146

Tony’s bouncers watching and protecting his every move?

Doesn’t make sense.”

His logic sunk my hopes. “No, I guess you’re right.”

Kevin said to Jimmer, “Could you check around,
discreetly,
and see if Dick owed anyone money?”

“Sure,”

Jimmer

said.

Jimmer’s pawnshop was a veritable candy store of information. He made it his business to know the fi nancial status of all minor and major players in the four-state area. Apparently, Dick and Tony were players. Since I hadn’t known that, I was obviously relegated into the non-player category.

“Maybe we should check and see if there was a life insurance policy on Sam,” I mused aloud, then snapped my fi ngers. “With a double indemnity clause and fi nd out who stands to benefi t.”

“You really do watch too much TV,” Kevin said.

I lit a cigarette, wincing when the fi lter pulled the scraped skin on my lip. Damn thing hurt but I smoked anyhow. “Do you think we should talk to Martinez?”

“Hell, no,” Jimmer bellowed. “For Chrissake, Julie, haven’t you been listening?”

I faced Kevin and his silent nod of agreement. “After all this new information, you still believe Dick had nothing to do with Sam’s disappearance?”

His eyes clouded and he frowned at his beer. “I don’t know.”

147

Th

e front door banged. Callous Lilly’s syrupy voice wafted up the stairs. “Kevin? Honey? Where are you?”

“Up

here.”

Hoo-fucking-ray. And I thought my night couldn’t get any worse.

“Be nice,” Kevin warned.

I dragged deeply on the cigarette, blowing in and out to let the blue haze fi ll the enclosed area instead of my lungs.

Petty? Yeah. I dared her to say something, after all, it was
Kevin’s
house, not hers. Besides, I was here fi rst.

When Lilly stepped into the kitchen, her pert nose wrinkled. Her breath hitched — a delicate little cough.

Crossing to Kevin, she waved away the smoke while her bright eyes zeroed in on the empty cans on the table.

Her hand slimed Kevin’s shoulder. “Looks like you’re cel-ebrating.”

Jimmer, ever the gentleman, grabbed a beer and held it out to her.

Her glossy brown bob stayed board stiff as she declined with a slight shake of her fat head. A slim, peach linen-covered hip Velcro-ed to Kevin’s chair.

I blew a perfect smoke ring in her direction, but darn it, she wasn’t impressed.

“I didn’t realize you had plans,” she said softly. “I feel like I’m intruding. Maybe I’d better go.”

Kevin circled an arm around her. “Don’t be silly. Stay.”

She

fl ashed him an indulgent smile before he pulled 148

her onto his knee. Her muted, delighted squeal grated on my soul like fi ngernails on a chalkboard.

God, I hated her.

I hated that she’d clouded Kevin’s judgment with her simpering ways. I hated that he was so stupidly male and had fallen for her entirely faked demeanor. A demeanor that smacked too creepily of sappy, sweet Miss Melanie Hamilton Wilkes for my taste.

Where did I fi t in my bizarre comparison to
Gone with
the Wind
? Was I supposed to act the part of Scarlett? Vying with her for the attention of Ashley?

Fuck that. I didn’t want to be Scarlett. I wanted to be Rhett. Rhett didn’t take shit and I’d had my share tonight.

I stood, zipped up Kevin’s leather jacket to cover the bloodstains on my T-shirt, and kept my limping to a minimum. “It’s late. Jimmer? Will you take me to my car?”

“Sure.” He grabbed the remaining beer, saluted Kevin, and was out the door.

“Oh, Julie, I didn’t mean to run you off ,” Lilly said.

Like hell you didn’t
. I smiled at her even though my face nearly cracked from the eff ort.

“You aren’t. Got an early morning.” I patted Kevin’s shoulder, the one that wasn’t encircled by her talon. “See ya.”

For once I left without making a smart remark. After all, tomorrow was another day.

149

When I pulled onto my street an hour later, cars lined both sides of the road. Looked like Leanne was having a party. Again. Hopefully Kiyah had a quiet corner to hide in. I briefl y considered joining her when I noticed Ray’s pickup parked in my driveway.

Th

e thought of dealing with him had me throwing my car in reverse, whipping a U-turn, and backtracking to the sheriff ’s offi

ce. Sad, when an empty jail cell and listening to drunks throw up cheap booze was more appealing than my own king-sized bed.

Th

e sheriff came in the next morning at fi ve thirty and woke me. I changed clothes, cleaned up, clocked in, and started my workday.

My work duties kept me busy enough not to think about my aching body. Our small county doesn’t have the budget for separate departments or job titles. I’m responsible for everything from reordering toilet paper to fi xing the copier. Th

e secretarial tasks are mundane, but on occasion I get to do more than fi le and answer phones.

I’d considered at one time taking the required courses to become a full-fl edged deputy. Carrying a gun, driving a patrol car, and handcuffi

ng bad guys, yeah, I’d roman-

ticized it just a tad. I’d even given myself a radio handle,

“JC” for those urgent conversations with dispatch when my full name was too long. Th

e reality? Th

e pay scale is

150

lousy and the training schedule rigorous. Sitting behind a desk with access to a clean bathroom and a soda machine doesn’t seem so bad.

For now I’m content living out my bad-girl-packing-attitude fantasies with Kevin part-time. I don’t love this job, but it sure beats working retail.

From weekend traffi

c tickets to domestic abuse calls, I

know this county’s secrets well. Th

e fi les do make interest-

ing reading. Some days I’ll scour every case, other days I’ll fi le them with barely a second glance. My stack had shrunk down to the second-to-the-last folder, when the name jumped out. Leanne Dobrowski.

Damn. Leanne and her daughter Kiyah are my neighbors. We live in a low-income housing development built specifi cally for people with modest means. Modest meaning: Th

ere aren’t doctors, lawyers, or even insurance salesman gracing our block parties.

Our development is comprised of one-hundred single-family houses centered around a playground/picnic area complete with a regulation horseshoe pit. Th e houses are

either 1970’s split-foyer or ranch style. I live in the smaller, split-foyer model. A lot of house for a single woman, but condo and apartments are scarce in our community. After the six months I lived in a trailer court, I grew to dislike anything shaped like a shoebox. Hard to believe my house is considered a step up.

In reality, I’d only traded tin for tin. Th ese houses

151

were slapped together quickly with cheap building materials, saving the state and the taxpayers precious dollars. It doesn’t help that few of the homeowners take pride in their houses. Trucks on blocks and broken plastic yard toys are acceptable forms of landscaping. Besides the Indian reservations, low-income housing is the Midwestern equivalent of a big city ghetto.

I opened Leanne’s fi le. Disturbing the peace. Figured.

Evidently she’d had a more interesting Wednesday night than usual. Deputy John responded to the call placed by the boyfriend’s neighbors. Seemed Leanne and Bobby were arguing on his porch at three in the morning. Drunk, naked and hysterical, she’d failed to make her point with Bobby and was pissed off at Deputy John’s intrusion. She piped down only under the threat of an additional charge of drunk and disorderly. Her court date was set for two weeks from Th