Blood Ties (18 page)

His grin showed far too many pointy teeth to be considered benevolent.

Th

e door burst open and a rough voice intoned, “Goddammit, Tim, I’m sick of . . .” An overall-clothed man wielding a hammer stopped dead in his tracks upon seeing us. “Shit. Didn’t know you had people in here.”

Father Tim stood and glared at the man. “You’ll have to forgive Bobby. Working on construction sites gives him a colorful vocabulary, and sometimes he even forgets he’s in a church.”

I tilted my head. Now,
him
I recognized immediately.

He’d been the only guy in high school that had boasted a full beard. I withheld a shudder. “Bobby? Bobby Adair?”

Bobby straightened and gave me a fi erce once-over, then repeated the process on Kevin before his questioning gaze landed on Tim.

Father Tim’s bark of laughter fi lled the room, but it fell shy of jolly. “Rapid City is a small town, isn’t it? Bobby, you remember Julie Collins? And Kevin Wells? Th ey graduated a couple of years after us. Bobby is the indispensable foreman on our construction project.”

Bobby muttered and sent his scabby hand toward 185

Kevin. “Still playing round ball?”

“Nah.” Kevin shook back with gusto. “Pretty much quit after high school. You?”

“Played a little in the service, work the sweets off a Tim occasionally, but nothing serious.”

“Not true,” Father Tim interjected. “We work out down at the Cornerstone Rescue Mission at least once a week. You know, to encourage those guys to consider physical activity as a replacement for alcohol and drugs.”

“Hasn’t worked so far,” Bobby sneered. “Like a bunch of drunken Indians are any kind of challenge.”

His words were like a cold dash of unholy water. I went absolutely rigid.

Father Tim sent him another infuriated look.

Kevin, sensing my rage, swiftly changed the subject.

“Miss playing ball, but I’ve taken up hunting since I moved back. Got a friend that deals in guns.”

Bobby’s ears perked up. “Who’s your friend?”

“Jimmer

Cheadle.”

He nodded approval. “I’ve known Jimmer for years, great guy. Bought my last rifl e from him.”

“Yeah? What did you get?”

“H-S Precision Series 2000 take-down with a Swarovs-ki scope.”

Kevin whistled. “Sweet.” He turned to Father Tim.

“You hunt much?”

“Bobby occasionally drags me along.” He shot me a 186

sidelong glance. “I’d much rather use my time to seek out those that are too afraid to ask for help.”

I smiled tightly. “With your diff erent philosophies, I’m surprised to see you guys are still hanging out.”

“We don’t nearly as much as we used to,” Bobby grum-bled. Father Tim’s face darkened to the color of Mogen David wine before he added a forced smile.

As they exchanged the usual male sport-hunting-my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours bullshit, I considered Bobby, not without malice. Since graduation, he’d kept up his beefy athletic build; most men his age — aging jocks especially

— had gone soft in the middle. I’d never understood why he — gifted with a bigger share of athletic fortitude — had always hung on the periphery of Troy James’ greatness.

Bobby was attractive, almost handsome, even back then.

Th

e only reason I’d determined that he hadn’t been a babe magnet was his personality resembled a bowl of oatmeal.

By his terse answers to Kevin’s questions, I gathered nothing had changed on that front.

“Kevin and Julie are working on the Friel case,” Father Tim said.

Bobby crossed his arms over his barrel-sized chest.

“Got any leads?”

“Besides Dick Friel?” I quipped.

Kevin shot me his, you-have-a-big-mouth look.

“You guys are cops?”

“No,” Kevin said.

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Kevin didn’t elaborate, which was odd. We stood crammed together in a pocket of awkward silence for several heartbeats.

“Well,” Father Tim fi nally said with a strained chuckle, clapping a hand on Bobby’s broad shoulder.

Bobby grunted, sidestepping Father Tim and his aff able gesture.

“I best get on with whatever new building problem Bobby is itching to berate me about. Sorry I couldn’t have been more helpful.”

“If you do think of anything else, call me,” Kevin said.

“Will do. It was nice seeing you both again. You really should consider coming to Mass.” A milky hand swept down the front of his black shirt. “I’m fairly well known for my humorous sermons.”

Th

is time his serene smile was directed at me.

Bobby wasn’t smiling at all.

Kevin gripped my elbow, leading me to the door, before I could off er my own insincere comments to the conversation.

Strange, that Kevin had usurped my usual broody persona. He waited until we’d pulled into the café parking lot before exploding. “What a load of shit.”

“Which

part?”

“Th

e whole thing. Father Tim saw her more than once.” He pointed to our notes and the fi ve days Samantha had scheduled counseling sessions with Father Tim.

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“Just because she wrote it down, doesn’t mean she went.”

“True. But did you notice he didn’t call Sam by name?

Not once? Nor did he ask how her parents were doing.

Seems strange for a priest used to off ering condolences.

Doubly strange since he knows both Dick and Shelley.”

Kevin faced me, resting his back against the driver’s door.

“Another thing. Why did he specifi cally use the word

‘shame’ when talking about the way Sam acted? If he didn’t know why she needed counseling, why wouldn’t he say she was distraught? We’re supposed to believe he blithely turned her away because she wouldn’t open up? Wrong.

Guys like him live for getting to the root of the problem.”

Th

e side of his temple popped in as he ground his teeth. He stared through me. I was beginning to hate that look.

“Father Tim knew what haunted Sam, knew why Sam was ashamed because Sam told him. In one of those counseling sessions he found out about Shelley. He fucking knew and he did nothing to help Sam. Why? For Christ sake, this guy hangs out at the mission. He’s probably heard it all, and seen it all. He’s spooked by one harmless sixteen-year-old girl? It doesn’t make sense.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” I challenged. “An hour ago you were ready to drop the case.”

“Not now.” Kevin shifted back toward the steering wheel, scrawled something across the bottom of the notebook 189

before checking his watch. “We found Father Tim, that’s a start. But in the meantime, Lilly and I can still make a late brunch.” Th

e engine turned over. He scrubbed my heel print from the console. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what time to pick up your check.”

Stumbling from his all but moving car, I pretended his dismissal hadn’t stung.

Hah. Tell that to the beehive-sized welt he’d imbedded not only on my ass, but also on my soul.

Damn. Alone again and it was barely noon. Two days in a row was two days too many. What was I supposed to do now?

I did the one thing guaranteed to take the sting out.

I headed to Dusty’s.

Dusty’s is a no-frills bar; it’s a neighborhood hangout, despite that it stands more than fi ve miles out of town.

No atmosphere or pretentious ambience, just a dark place where adults meet to share a drink, play a game of pool, swap lies, and pretend we’re still in our carefree youth. Not that we’re particularly fond of youth in our bar. College kids stay away; that whole age group isn’t impressed with the all-country music choices on the jukebox, the lack of cool movie memorabilia or assorted sports equipment adorning the drab cement walls. Dusty’s attracts workers, ranchers, housewives; anyone over the age of thirty tired of non-smoking franchise restaurants and trendy brew pubs.

I walked past the pool tables and dartboards in the front room. Slipping into the patched Naugahyde booth, I glanced around, over the scattered high tables with barstools.

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Pat, the bartender, lined my usual drink order on a tray, lifted the partition, and moved past the mirrored bar.

I nodded to Mr. Lambert, Dusty’s oldest regular, sitting at the end of the shellacked countertop. I kicked off my shoes and burrowed my toes into the space between the cushion and the frame, resting my head back, staring at the ceiling.

Th

e unique ambience that was Dusty’s calmed me somewhat.

In an eff ort to spruce up the cave-like atmosphere, the last painter had dumped multi-colored glitter into the paint. Instead of the illusion of looking into a vast universe, it emphasized the fact that black paint is never the right choice. Now, the ceiling refl ects as little as the gray concrete fl oor.

My beer slid across the table and I smiled at Pat. He grinned back, tobacco-stained teeth a nice contrast to his colorless complexion. A man like Pat, who lives his life in a bar, rarely gets a chance to see daylight, yet he looks remarkably scurvy free. Must be the orange juice in the screwdrivers.

I knew spending Sunday afternoon in the bar wasn’t the most productive use of my time. Kevin and I should be tying up the last loose ends for David LaChance, interviewing Shelley a second time. Instead I found myself challenging old Mr. Lambert to a game of pool. Th en darts. I

beat him both times and didn’t care that he was eighty and 192

nearly blind. I’d won and that was good enough for me.

Th

e afternoon passed slowly, not necessarily in a pleasant blur. Mr. Lambert regaled me with stories from what he called his “productive years.”

Getting old in a society where people treated their pets better than their elders sucked. No wife, no kids, no friends, being alone sucked. Spending large amounts of time and his retirement funds in a bar sucked. Basically, Mr. Lambert’s life sucked. He’d welcome any change.

Even death? I wondered, but didn’t have the guts to ask. Or, to hang around him and contemplate that my life was currently headed in that direction. In fi fty years would I be the stoop-shouldered blue-haired lady, sitting in the same corner booth, sipping off -brand tequila, sucking breath from an oxygen cylinder, and railing against the cruel world?

I shuddered and knocked back my beer.

Without forty sports channels on twenty big screen TVs, Dusty’s is pretty quiet on Sundays. It was the perfect place to brood. Ray hadn’t shown up — thank God for small favors. I doubted anyone knew where I was; I doubted anyone cared. But that niggling sensation started at the back of my neck again; too much time had passed for it to be the lingering eff ects of my nightmare.

When a swarthy Latin man slipped into the seat across from me off ering an impious smile, my fi rst reaction was

“Th

ank you, Jesus.”

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“Julie Collins?” he asked in a low voice that promised delivery of hours of hot, raw sex. He rested his elbows on the table.

I nodded, mesmerized by the brilliance of his white teeth, the strong line of his freshly shaven jaw, his command of every speck of dust in the room.

“He didn’t lie.” His gaze swept over me, not without extreme interest. “You are everything I’ve heard. And a blonde to boot.”

“Blame my Nordic ancestors.”

“I’m thanking them.”

He leaned closer. God. A little puddle of drool formed on the center of my tongue. He was just as stunning up close.

“You are a diffi

cult woman to track down.”

“Well, you found me,” I cooed, lowering my lashes as I demurely traced a fi nger around the rim of my beer bottle.

“Who are you?”

“Tony

Martinez.”

So much for my prayers being answered. I upended the beer as an excuse to disgorge the tiny lump of dread wedged between my heart and throat. My gaze darted over his black leather vest, standard uniform for the biker crowd, to his bare muscular arms covered in colorful swirls of tattoos. No surprise there, but the vibrant patches sewn onto his vest were eye-catching. And harder than hell to come by.

I faintly remembered a conversation about how 194

motorcycle club members earned patches. Merits were bestowed for prowess with a gun or knife, longevity and loyalty, daredevil stunts on a bike, and for besting a member of a rival club, either by hospitalization or death. Th e

one that stuck with me most graphically, however, was the “red” badge or some such name, given to a man for going down on a woman during her menstrual cycle. Th e

feat had to be performed in full view of the membership.

Although the uniforms and earned patches brought to my mind the Boy Scouts, I doubted they strove for these types of badges.

My eyes narrowed to the circular patch proclaiming him “El Presidente’.” Yep. No doubt. Tony Martinez had come looking for me. Why?

“So, how did you fi nd me?”

“Secretary at the sheriff ’s offi

ce said it was your day off .

No one answered at your place so I called Jimmer. Said you hung out here.” Slowly his gaze took in every nuance that is Dusty’s, as he sized up the competition.

“You just showed up?”

“Nah.” He angled his head toward the bar. “Called Pat fi rst. He and I go way back. Told me you were here.

Alone.”

Pat’s tip from me dwindled to nothing. I glanced up as the man in question unloaded drinks from his tray. Four bottles of Coors, a full bottle of Don Julio, seal intact, two shot glasses, and a plate of limes.

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I sent Pat a questioning stare but he was too busy kowtowing to Tony to notice.

“On the house,” he said before scurrying back behind the bar.

Now, I was seriously freaked. Nothing was ever on the house at Dusty’s, especially not a hundred dollar bottle of tequila. Tony grabbed a beer, saluted me, and drank. I did the same, not knowing the proper protocol in dealing with the president of a motorcycle club. Had Emily Post written etiquette rules for this social situation? I tilted back in the booth until my spine was fully straight. “So, why are you here?”

He laughed, a rich sound sparking a familiarity of silk sheets. “Harvey said you’d get right to the point.”